^TALES 

?FR-0/A 


EMORI  ESI 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Dr.   ERNEST   C.   MOORE 


* 


r\ 


MEMORIES. 


TALES    FROM    FOREIGN    TONGUES. 


UNIFORM     IN     STYLE    AND    PRICE. 


I. 

Memories :  A  Story  of  German  Love.  Translated  from 
the  German  of  MAX  MULLER,  by  GEO.  P.  UPTON.  i6mo, 
173  pages,  gilt  top. 

II. 

Graziella:  A  Story  of  Italian  Love.  Translated  from 
the  French  of  A.  DE  LAMARTINE,  by  JAMES  B.  RUNNION. 
i6mo,  235  pages,  gilt  top. 

III. 

Marie:  A  Story  of  Eussian  Love.  From  the  Russian 
of  ALEXANDER  PUSHKIN,  by  MARIB  H.  DE  ZIELINSKA. 
i6mo,  210  pages,  gilt  top. 

IV. 

Madeleine:  A  Story  of  French  Love.  Translated  from 
the  French  of  JULES  SANDEAU,  by  FRANCIS  CHARLOT. 
i6mo,  244  pages,  gilt  top. 


MEMORIES: 


A   STORY    OF    GERMAN    LOVE. 


TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    GERMAN 

OF 

MAX     MULLER. 


GEORGE    P.    UPTON 


CHICAGO: 

A.    C.    McCLURG    &    COMPANY. 
1889. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874 ,  by 

JANSEN,  McCLURG  &  CO., 
In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


CONTENTS. 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE, 9 

AUTHOR'S  PREFACE, 15 

FIRST  MEMORY, 19 

SECOND  MEMORY, 29 

THIRD  MEMORY, 41 

FOURTH  MEMORY, 53 

FIFTH  MEMORY,       69 

SIXTH  MEMORY,       97 

SEVENTH  MEMORY, 109 

LAST  MEMORY, 147 


215200 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE. 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE. 


THE  translation  of  any  work  is  at  best  a 
difficult  task,  and  must  inevitably  be  pre- 
judicial to  whatever  of  beauty  the  original  pos- 
sesses. When  the  principal  charm  of  the  original 
lies  in  its  elegant  simplicity,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
"Deutsche  Liebe,"  the  difficulty  is  still  further 
enhanced.  The  translator  has  sought  to  repro- 
duce the  simple  German  in  equally  simple  Eng- 
lish, even  at  the  risk  of  transferring  German 
idioms  into  the  English  text. 

The  story  speaks  for  itself.  Without  plot, 
incidents  or  situations,  it  is  nevertheless  dramat- 
ically constructed,  unflagging  in  interest,  abound- 
ing in  beauty,  grace  and  pathos,  and  filled  with 
the  tenderest  feeling  of  sympathy,  which  will  go 
straight  to  the  heart  of  every  lover  of  the  ideal 


10  7'RAN SLA  TOR'S  PREFACE. 

in  the  world  of  humanity,  and  every  worshipper 
in  the  world  of  nature.  Its  brief  essays  upon 
theology,  literature  and  social  habits,  contained 
in  the  dialogues  between  the  hero  and  the  hero- 
ine, will  commend  themselves  to  the  thoughtful 
reader  by  their  clearness  and  beauty  of  state- 
ment, as  well  as  by  their  freedom  from  prejudice. 
"  Deutsche  Liebe  "  is  a  poem  in  prose,  whose 
setting  is  all  the  more  beautiful  and  tender,  in 
that  it  is  freed  from  the  bondage  of  metre,  and 
has  been  the  unacknowledged  source  of  many 
a  poet's  most  striking  utterances. 

As  such,  the  translator  gives  it  to  the  public, 
confident  that  it  will  find  ready  acceptance 
among  those  who  cherish  the  ideal,  and  a  tender 
welcome  by  every  lover  of  humanity. 

The  translator  desires  to  make  acknowledg- 
ments to  J.  J.  Lalor,  Esq.,  late  of  the  Chicago 
Tribune,  for  his  hearty  co-operation  in  the  pro- 
gress of  the  work,  and  many  valuable  sugges- 
tions; to  Prof.  Feuling,  the  eminent  philologist, 
of  the  University  of  Wisconsin,  for  his  literal 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE.  11 

version  of  the  extracts  from  the  "  Deutsche  The- 
ologie,"  which  preserve  the  quaintness  of  the 
original,  and  to  Mrs.  F.  M.  Brown,  for  her 
metrical  version  of  Goethe's  almost  untrans- 
latable lines,  "  Ueber  alien  Gipfeln,  ist  Ruh," 
which  form  the  key-note  of  the  beautiful  har- 
mony in  the  character  of  the  heroine. 

G.  P.  U. 

Chicago,  November,  1874. 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 


AUTHOR'S   PREFACE. 


WHO  has  not,  at  some  period  of  his  life, 
seated  himself  at  a  writing-table,  where, 
only  a  short  time  before,  another  sat,  who  now 
rests  in  the  grave?  Who  has  not  opened  the 
drawers,  which  for  long  years  have  hidden  the 
secrets  of  a  heart  now  buried  in  the  holy  peace 
of  the  church-yard  ?  Here  lie  the  letters  which 
were  so  precious  to  him,  the  beloved  one ;  here 
the  pictures,  ribbons,  and  books  with  marks  on 
every  leaf.  Who  can  now  read  and  interpret 
them  ?  Who  can  gather  again  the  withered  and 
scattered  leaves  of  this  rose,  and  vivify  them 
with  fresh  perfume?  The  flames,  in  which  the 
Greeks  enveloped  the  bodies  of  the  departed 
for  the  purpose  of  destruction;  the  flames,  into 
which  the  ancients  cast  everything  once  dearest 


1 6  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 

to  the  living,  are  now  the  securest  repository 
for  these  relics.  With  trembling  fear  the  sur- 
viving friend  reads  the  leaves  no  eye  has  ever 
seen,  save  those  now  so  firmly  closed,  and  if, 
after  a  glance,  too  hasty  even  to  read  them,  he 
is  convinced  these  letters  and  leaves  contain 
nothing  which  men  deem  important,  he  throws 
them  quickly  upon  the  glowing  coals  —  a  flash 
and  they  are  gone. 

From  such  flames  the  following  leaves  have 
been  saved.  They  were  at  first  intended  only 
for  the  friends  of  the  deceased,  yet  they  have 
found  friends  even  among  strangers,  and,  since 
it  is  so  to  be,  may  wander  anew  in  distant  lands. 
Gladly  would  the  compiler  have  furnished  more, 
but  the  leaves  are  too  much  scattered  and  muti- 
lated to  be  rearranged  and  given  complete. 


FIRST    MEMORY. 


FIRST   MEMORY. 


/^HILDHOOD  has  its  secrets  and  its  mys- 
^— '  teries ;  but  who  can  tell  or  who  can  explain 
them !  We  have  all  roamed  through  this  silent 
wonder-wood  —  we  have  all  once  opened  our  eyes 
in  blissful  astonishment,  as  the  beautiful  reality 
of  life  overflowed  our  souls.  We  knew  not  where, 
or  who,  we  were  —  the  whole  world  was  ours  and 
we  were  the  whole  world's.  That  was  an  infinite 
life  —  without  beginning  and  without  end,  with- 
out rest  and  without  pain.  In  the  heart,  it 
was  as  clear  as  the  spring  heavens,  fresh  as  the 
violet's  perfume — hushed  and  holy  as  a  Sabbath 
morning. 

What  disturbs  this  God's-peace  of  the  child  ? 
How  can  this  unconscious  and  innocent  exist- 
ence ever  cease  ?  What  dissipates  the  rapture  of 


20  FIRST  MEMORY. 

this  individuality  and  universality,  and  suddenly 
leaves  us  solitary  and  alone  in  a  clouded  life  ? 

Say  not,  with  serious  face,  it  is  sin !  Can  even 
a  child  sin  ?  Say  rather,  we  know  not,  and  must 
only  resign  ourselves  to  it. 

Is  it  sin,  which  makes  the  bud  a  blossom,  and 
the  blossom  fruit,  and  the  fruit  dust  ? 

Is  it  sin,  which  makes  the  worm  a  chrysalis, 
and  the  chrysalis  a  butterfly,  and  the  butterfly 
dust  ? 

And  is  it  sin,  which  makes  the  child  a  man, 
and  the  man  a  gray-haired  man,  and  the  gray- 
haired  man  dust  ?  And  what  is  dust  ? 

Say  rather,  we  know  not,  and  must  only  resign 
ourselves  to  it. 

Yet  it  is  so  beautiful,  recalling  the  spring- 
time of  life,  to  look  back  and  remember  one's 
self.  Yes,  even  in  the  sultry  summer,  in  the 
melancholy  autumn  and  in  the  cold  winter  of 
life,  there  is  here  and  there  a  spring  day,  and  the 
heart  says:  "I  feel  like  spring."  Such  a  day  is 
this  —  and  so  I  lay  me  down  upon  the  soft  moss 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  21 

of  the  fragrant  woods,  and  stretch  out  my  weary 
limbs,  and  look  up,  through  the  green  foliage, 
into  the  boundless  blue,  and  think  how  it  used 
to  be  in  that  childhood. 

Then,  all  seems  forgotten.  The  first  pages  of 
memory  are  like  the  old  family  Bible.  The  first 
leaves  are  wholly  faded  and  somewhat  soiled  with 
handling.  But,  when  we  turn  further,  and  come 
to  the  chapters  where  Adam  and  Eve  were  ban- 
ished from  Paradise,  then,  all  begins  to  grow 
clear  and  legible.  Now  if  we  could  only  find  the 
title-page  with  the  imprint  and  date  —  but  that  is 
irrevocably  lost,  and,  in  their  place,  we  find  only 
the  clear  transcript  —  our  baptismal  certificate  — 
bearing  witness  when  we  were  born,  the  names 
of  our  parents  and  godparents,  and  that  we  were 
not  issued  sine  loco  et  anno. 

But,  oh  this  beginning !  Would  there  were 
none,  since,  with  the  beginning,  all  thought  and 
memories  alike  cease.  When  we  thus  dream 
back  into  childhood,  and  from  childhood  into 
infinity,  this  bad  beginning  continually  flies  fur- 


22  FIRST  MEMORY. 

ther  away.  The  thoughts  pursue  it  and  never 
overtake  it ;  just  as  a  child  seeks  the  spot  where 
the  blue  sky  touches  the  earth,  and  runs  and 
runs,  while  the  sky  always  runs  before  it,  yet  still 
touches  the  earth  —  but  the  child  grows  weary 
and  never  reaches  the  spot. 

But  even  since  we  were  once  there  —  wherever 
it  may  be,  where  we  had  a  beginning,  what  do 
we  know  now  ?  For  memory  shakes  itself  like 
the  spaniel,  just  come  out  of  the  waves,  while 
the  water  runs  in  his  eyes  and  he  looks  very 
strangely. 

I  believe  I  can  even  yet  remember  when  I 
saw  the  stars  for  the  first  time.  They  may  have 
seen  me  often  before,  but  one  evening  it  seemed 
as  if  it  were  cold.  Although  I  lay  in  my  mother's 
lap,  I  shivered  and  was  chilly,  or  I  was  fright- 
ened. In  short,  something  came  over  me  which 
reminded  me  of  my  little  Ego  in  no  ordinary 
manner.  Then  my  mother  showed  me  the 
bright  stars,  and  I  wondered  at  them,  and 
thought  that  she  had  made  them  very  beauti- 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  23 

fully.  Then  I  felt  warm  again,  and  could  sleep 
well. 

Furthermore,  I  remember  how  I  once  lay  in 
the  grass  and  everything  about  me  tossed  and 
nodded,  hummed  and  buzzed.  Then  there 
came  a  great  swarm  of  little,  myriad-footed, 
winged  creatures,  which  lit  upon  my  forehead 
and  eyes  and  said,  "Good  day."  Immediately 
my  eyes  smarted,  and  I  cried  to  my  mother,  and 
she  said :  "  Poor  little  one,  how  the  gnats  have 
stung  him !  "  I  could  not  open  my  eyes  or  see 
the  blue  sky  any  longer,  but  my  mother  had 
a  bunch  of  fresh  violets  in  her  hand,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  a  dark-blue,  fresh,  spicy  perfume 
were  wafted  through  my  senses.  Even  now, 
whenever  I  see  the  first  violets,  I  remember  this, 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  I  must  close  my  eyes  so 
that  the  old  dark-blue  heaven  of  that  day  may 
again  rise  over  my  soul. 

Still  further  do  I  remember,  how,  at  another 
time,  a  new  world  disclosed  itself  to  me  —  more 
beautiful  than  the  star-world  or  the  violet  per- 


24  FIRST  MEMORY. 

fume.  It  was  on  an  Easter  morning,  and  my 
mother  had  dressed  me  early.  Before  the  win- 
dow stood  our  old  church.  It  was  not  beautiful, 
but  still  it  had  a  lofty  roof  and  tower,  and  on  the 
tower  a  golden  cross,  and  it  appeared  very  much 
older  and  grayer  than  the  other  buildings.  I 
wondered  who  lived  in  it,  and  once  I  looked  in 
through  the  iron-grated  door.  It  was  entirely 
empty,  cold  and  dismal.  There  was  not  even 
one  soul  in  the  whole  building,  and  after  that  I 
always  shuddered  when  I  passed  the  door.  But 
on  this  Easter  morning,  it  had  rained  early,  and 
when  the  sun  came  out  in  full  splendor,  the  old 
church  with  the  gray  sloping  roof,  the  high  win- 
dows and  the  tower  with  the  golden  cross  glis- 
tened with  a  wondrous  shimmer.  All  at  once 
the  light  which  streamed  through  the  lofty  win- 
dows began  to  move  and  glisten.  It  was  so 
intensely  bright  that  one  could  have  looked 
within,  and  as  I  closed  my  eyes  the  light  entered 
my  soul  and  therein  everything  seemed  to  shed 
brilliancy  and  perfume,  to  sing  and  to  ring.  It 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  25 

seemed  to  me  a  new  life  had  commenced  in 
myself  and  that  I  was  another  being,  and  when 
I  asked  my  mother  what  it  meant,  she  replied 
it  was  an  Easter  song  they  were  singing  in  the 
church.  What  bright,  holy  song  it  was,  which 
at  that  time  surged  through  my  soul,  I  have 
never  been  able  to  discover.  It  must  have  been 
an  old  church  hymn,  like  those  which  many  a 
time  stirred  the  rugged  soul  of  our  Luther.  I 
never  heard  it  again,  but  many  a  time  even  now 
when  I  hear  an  adagio  of  Beethoven's,  or  a 
psalm  of  Marcellus,  or  a  chorus  of  Handel's, 
or  a  simple  song  in  the  Scotch  Highlands  or  the 
Tyrol,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  the  lofty  church  win- 
dows again  glistened  and  the  organ-tones  once 
more  surged  through  my  soul,  and  a  new  world 
revealed  itself — more  beautiful  than  the  starry 
heavens  and  the  violet  perfume. 

These  things  I  remember  in  my  earliest  child- 
hood, and  intermingled  with  them  are  my  dear 
mother's  looks,  the  calm,  earnest  gaze  of  my 
father,  gardens  and  vine  leaves,  and  soft  green 


26  FIRST  MEMORY. 

turf,  and  a  very  old  and  quaint  picture-book  — 
and  this  is  all  I  can  recall  of  the  first  scattered 
leaves  of  my  childhood. 

Afterwards  it  grows  brighter  and  clearer. 
Names  and  faces  appear  —  not  only  father  and 
mother,  but  brothers  and  sisters,  friends  and 
teachers,  and  a  multitude  of  strange  people.  Ah ! 
yes,  of  these  strange  people  there  is  so  much  re- 
corded in  memory. 


SECOND  MEMORY. 


SECOND   MEMORY. 


NOT  far  from  our  house,  and  opposite  the 
old  church  with  the  golden  cross,  stood  a 
large  building,  even  larger  than  the  church,  and 
having  many  towers.  They  looked  exceedingly 
gray  and  old  and  had  no  golden  cross,  but  stone 
eagles  tipped  the  summits  and  a  great  white  and 
blue  banner  fluttered  from  the  highest  tower,  di- 
rectly over  the  lofty  doorway  at  the  top  of  the 
steps,  where,  on  either  side,  two  mounted  soldiers 
stood  sentinels.  The  building  had  many  win- 
dows, and  behind  the  windows  you  could  distin- 
guish red  silk  curtains  with  golden  tassels.  Old 
lindens  encircled  the  grounds,  which,  in  summer, 
overshadowed  the  gray  masonry  with  their  green 
leaves  and  bestrewed  the  turf  with  their  fragrant 
white  blossoms.  I  had  often  looked  in  there,  and 
at  evening  when  the  lindens  exhaled  their  per- 


30  SECOND  MEMORY. 

fumes  and  the  windows  were  illuminated,  I  saw 
many  figures  pass  and  repass  like  shadows.  Mu- 
sic swept  down  from  on  high,  and  carriages  drove 
up,  from  which  ladies  and  gentlemen  alighted 
and  ascended  the  stairs.  They  all  looked  so 
beautiful  and  good !  The  gentlemen  had  stars 
upon  their  breasts,  and  the  ladies  wore  fresh 
flowers  in  their  hair;  and  I  often  thought, — 
Why  do  I  not  go  there  too? 

One  day  my  father  took  me  by  the  hand  and 
said  :  "  We  are  going  to  the  castle ;  but  you  must 
be  very  polite  if  the  Princess  speaks  to  you,  and 
kiss  her  hand." 

I  was  about  six  years  of  age  and  as  delighted 
as  only  one  can  be  at  six  years  of  age.  I  had 
already  indulged  in  many  quiet  fancies  about  the 
shadows  which  I  had  seen  evenings  through  the 
lighted  windows,  and  had  heard  many  good 
things  at  home  of  the  beneficence  of  the  Prince 
and  Princess ;  how  gracious  they  were ;  how  much 
help  and  consolation  they  brought  to  the  poor 
and  sick ;  and  that  they  had  been  chosen  by  the 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  31 

grace  of  God  to  protect  the  good  and  punish 
the  bad.  I  had  long  pictured  to  myself  what 
transpired  in  the  castle,  so  that  the  Prince  and 
Princess  were  already  old  acquaintances  whom 
I  knew  as  well  as  my  nut-crackers  and  leaden 
soldiers. 

My  heart  beat  quickly  as  I  ascended  the  high 
stairs  with  my  father,  and  just  as  he  was  telling 
me  I  must  call  the  Princess  "  Highness,"  and  the 
Prince  "  Serene  Highness,"  the  folding-door 
opened  and  I  saw  before  me  a  tall  figure  with 
brilliantly  piercing  eyes.  She  seemed  to  advance 
and  stretch  out  her  hand  to  me.  There  was  an 
expression  on  her  countenance  which  1  had  long 
known,  and  a  heavenly  smile  played  about  her 
cheeks.  I  could  restrain  myself  no  longer,  and 
while  my  father  stood  at  the  door  bowing  very 
low  —  I  knew  not  why  —  my  heart  sprang  into 
my  throat.  I  ran  to  the  beautiful  lady,  threw  my 
arms  round  her  neck  and  kissed  her  as  I  would 
my  mother.  The  beautiful,  majestic  lady  will- 
ingly submitted,  stroked  my  hair  and  smiled; 


32  SECOND  MEMORY. 

but  my  father  took  my  hand,  led  me  away,  and 
said  I  was  very  rude,  and  that  he  should  never 
take  me  there  again.  I  grew  utterly  bewildered. 
The  blood  mounted  to  my  cheeks,  for  I  felt  that 
my  father  had  been  unjust  to  me.  I  looked  at 
the  Princess  as  if  she  ought  to  shield  me,  but 
upon  her  face  was  only  an  expression  of  mild 
earnestness.  Then  I  looked  round  upon  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  assembled  in  the  room, 
believing  that  they  would  come  to  my  defense. 
But  as  I  looked,  I  saw  that  they  were  laughing. 
Then  the  tears  sprang  into  my  eyes,  and  out  of 
the  door,  down  the  stairs,  and  past  the  lindens  in 
the  castle  yard,  I  rushed  home,  where  I  threw 
myself  into  my  mother's  arms  and  sobbed  and 
wept. 

"What  has  happened  to  you?"  said  she. 

"Oh!  mother!"  I  cried;  "I  was  at  the 
Princess',  and  she  was  such  a  good  and  beautiful 
woman,  just  like  you,  dear  mother,  that  I  had  to 
throw  my  arms  round  her  neck  and  kiss  her." 

"Ah!"   said    my  mother;    "you   should  not 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  33 

have  done  that,  for  they  are  strangers  and  high 
dignitaries." 

"And  what  then  are  strangers?"  said  I. 
"  May  I  not  love  all  people  who  look  upon  me 
with  affectionate  and  friendly  eyes?" 

"You  can  love  them,  my  son,"  replied  my 
mother,  "but  you  should  not  show  it." 

"  Is  it  then  something  wrong  for  me  to  love 
people?"  said  I.  "Why  cannot  I  show  it?" 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  she,  "  but 
you  must  do  as  your  father  says,  and  when  you 
are  older  you  will  understand  why  you  cannot 
embrace  every  woman  who  regards  you  with 
affectionate  and  friendly  eyes." 

That  was  a  sad  day.  Father  came  home, 
agreed  I  had  been  very  uncivil.  At  night  my 
mother  put  me  to  bed,  and  I  prayed,  but  I  could 
not  sleep,  and  kept  wondering  what  these  strange 
people  were,  whom  one  must  not  love. 


Thou   poor  human   heart !     So  soon  in  the 

spring   are  thy  leaves  broken  and  the  feathers 
3 


34  SECOND  MEMORY. 

torn  from  the  wings !  When  the  spring-red  of 
life  opens  the  hidden  calyx  of  the  soul,  it  per- 
fumes our  whole  being  with  love.  We  learn  to 
stand  and  to  walk,  to  speak  and  to  read,  but  no 
one  teaches  us  love.  It  is  inherent  in  us  like 
life,  they  say,  and  is  the  very  deepest  foundation 
of  our  existence.  As  the  heavenly  bodies  in- 
cline to  and  attract  each  other,  and  will  always 
cling  together  by  the  everlasting  law  of  gravita- 
tion, so  heavenly  souls  incline  to  and  attract 
each  other,  and  will  always  cling  together  by  the 
everlasting  law  of  love.  A  flower  cannot  blos- 
som without  sunshine,  and  man  cannot  live  with- 
out love.  Would  not  the  child's  heart  break  in 
despair  when  the  first  cold  storm  of  the  world 
sweeps  over  it,  if  the  warm  sunlight  of  love  from 
the  eyes  of  mother  and  father  did  not  shine 
upon  him  like  the  soft  reflection  of  divine  light 
and  love?  The  ardent  yearning,  which  then 
awakes  in  the  child,  is  the  purest  and  deepest 
love.  It  is  the  love  which  embraces  the  whole 
world,  which  shines  resplendent  wherever  the 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  35 

eyes  of  men  beam  upon  it,  which  exults  wher- 
ever it  hears  the  human  voice.  It  is  the  old, 
immeasurable  love ;  a  deep  well  which  no  plum- 
met has  ever  sounded;  a  fountain  of  perennial 
richness.  Whoever  knows  it  also  knows  that  in 
love  there  is  no  More  and  no  Less ;  but  that  he 
who  loves  can  only  love  with  the  whole  heart, 
and  with  the  whole  soul;  with  all  his  strength 
and  with  all  his  will.  -=* 

But,  alas,  how  little  remains  of  this  love  by 
the  time  we  have  finished  one-half  of  our  life- 
journey!  Soon  the  child  learns  that  there  are 
strangers,  and  ceases  to  be  a  child.  The  spring 
of  love  becomes  hidden  and  soon  filled  up.  Our 
eyes  gleam  no  more,  and  heavy-hearted  we  pass 
one  another  in  the  bustling  streets.  We  scarcely 
greet  each  other,  for  we  know  how  sharply  it  cuts 
the  soul  when  a  greeting  remains  unanswered, 
and  how  sad  it  is  to  be  sundered  from  those 
whom  we  have  once  greeted,  and  whose  hands 
we  have  clasped.  The  wings  of  the  soul  lose 
their  plumes;  the  leaves  of  the  flower  fast  fall 


36  SECOND  MEMORY. 

off  and  wither;  and  of  this  fountain  of  love 
there  remain  but  a  few  drops.  We  still  call 
these  few  drops  love,  but  it  is  no  longer  the 
clear,  fresh,  all-abounding  child-love.  It  is  love 
with  anxiety  and  trouble,  a  consuming  flame,  a 
burning  passion;  love  which  wastes  itself  like 
rain-drops  upon  the  hot  sand ;  love  which  is  a 
longing,  not  a  sacrifice ;  love  which  says  "  Wilt 
thou  be  mine,"  not  love  which  says,  "  I  must  be 
thine."  It  is  a  most  selfish,  vacillating  love. 
And  this  is  the  love  which  poets  sing  and  in 
which  young  men  and  maidens  believe;  a  fire 
which  burns  up  and  down,  yet  does  not  warm, 
and  leaves  nothing  behind  but  smoke  and  ashes. 
All  of  us  at  some  period  of  life  have  believed 
that  these  rockets  of  sunbeams  were  everlasting 
love,  but  the  brighter  the  glitter,  the  darker  the 
night  which  follows. 

And  then  when  all  around  grows  dark,  when 
we  feel  utterly  alone,  when  all  men  right  and  left 
pass  us  by  and  know  us  not,  a  forgotten  feeling 
rises  in  the  breast.  We  know  not  what  it  is,  for 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  37 

it  is  neither  love  nor  friendship.  You  feel  like 
crying  to  him  who  passes  you  so  cold  and 
strange :  "  Dost  thou  not  know  me  ?"  Then 
one  realizes  that  man  is  nearer  to  man  than 
brother  to  brother,  father  to  son,  or  friend  to 
friend.  How  an  old,  holy  saying  rings  through 
our  souls,  that  strangers  are  nearest  to  us.  Why 
must  we  pass  them  in  silence?  We  know  not, 
but  must  resign  ourselves  to  it.  When  two  trains 
are  rushing  by  upon  the  iron  rails  and  thou  seest 
a  well-known  eye  that  would  recognize  thee, 
stretch  out  thy  hand  and  try  to  grasp  the  hand 
of  a  friend,  and  perhaps  thou  wilt  understand 
why  man  passes  man  in  silence  here  below. 

An  old  sage  says :  "  I  saw  the  fragments  of  a 
wrecked  boat  floating  on  the  sea.  Only  a  few 
meet  and  hold  together  a  long  time.  Then 
comes  a  storm  and  drives  them  east  and  west, 
and  here  below  they  will  never  meet  again.  So 
it  is  with  mankind.  Yet  no  one  has  seen  the 
great  shipwreck." 


215200 


THIRD    MEMORY. 


THIRD   MEMORY. 


THE  clouds  in  the  sky  of  childhood  do  not 
last  long,  and  disappear  after  a  short,  warm 
tear-rain.  I  was  shortly  again  at  the  castle,  and 
the  Princess  gave  me  her  hand  to  kiss  and  then 
brought  her  children,  the  young  princes  and 
princesses,  and  we  played  together,  as  if  we  had 
known  each  other  for  years.  Those  were  happy 
days  when,  after  school  —  for  I  was  now  attend- 
ing school  —  I  could  go  to  the  castle  and  play. 
We  had  everything  the  heart  could  wish.  I 
found  playthings  there  which  my  mother  had 
shown  me  in  the  shop-windows,  and  which  were 
so  dear,  she  told  me,  that  poor  people  could  live 
a  whole  week  on  what  they  cost.  When  I 
begged  the  Princess'  permission  to  take  them 
home  and  show  them  to  my  mother,  she  was  per- 
fectly willing.  I  could  turn  over  and  over  and 


42  THIRD  MEMORY. 

look  for  hours  at  a  time  at  beautiful  picture 
books,  which  I  had  seen  in  the  book  stores  with 
my  father,  but  which  were  made  only  for  very 
good  children.  Everything  which  belonged  to 
the  young  princes  belonged  also  to  me  —  so  I 
thought,  at  least.  Furthermore,  I  was  not  only 
allowed  to  carry  away  what  I  wished,  but  I  often 
gave  away  the  playthings  to  other  children.  In 
short,  I  was  a  young  Communist,  in  the  full  sense 
of  the  term.  I  remember  at  one  time  the  Prin- 
cess had  a  golden  snake  which  coiled  itself 
around  her  arm  as  if  it  were  alive,  and  she  gave 
it  to  us  for  a  plaything.  As  I  was  going  home  I 
put  the  snake  on  my  arm  and  thought  I  would 
give  my  mother  a  real  fright  with  it.  On  the 
way,  however,  I  met  a  woman  who  noticed  the 
snake  and  begged  me  to  show  it  to  her ;  and  then 
she  said  if  she  could  only  keep  the  golden  snake, 
she  could  release  her  husband  from  prison  with 
it.  Naturally  I  did  not  stop  to  think  for  a  min- 
ute, but  ran  away  and  left  the  woman  alone  with 
the  golden  serpent-bracelet.  The  next  day 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  43 

there  was  much  excitement.  The  poor  woman 
was  brought  to  the  castle  and  the  people  said  she 
had  stolen  it.  Thereupon  I  grew  very  angry  and 
explained  with  holy  zeal  that  I  had  given  her  the 
bracelet  and  that  I  would  not  take  it  back  again. 
What  further  occurred  I  know  not,  but  I  remem- 
ber that  after  that  time,  I  showed  the  Princess 
everything  I  took  home  with  me. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  my  conceptions  of 
Meum  and  Tuum  were  fully  settled,  and  at  a 
very  late  period  they  were  at  times  confused,  just 
as  it  was  a  long  time  before  I  could  distinguish 
between  the  blue  and  red  colors.  The  last  time 
I  remember  my  friends  laughing  at  me  on  this 
account  was  when  my  mother  gave  me  some 
money  to  buy  apples.  She  gave  me  a  groschen. 
The  apples  cost  only  a  sechser,  and  when  I  gave 
the  woman  the  groschen,  she  said,  very  sadly  as 
it  seemed  to  me,  that  she  had  sold  nothing  the 
whole  livelong  day  and  could  not  give  me  back  a 
sechser.  She  wished  I  would  buy  a  groschen's 
worth.  Then  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  also  had 


44  THIRD  MEMORY. 

a  sechser  in  my  pocket,  and  thoroughly  delighted 
that  I  had  solved  the  difficult  problem,  I  gave  it 
to  the  woman  and  said :  "  Now  you  can  give  me 
back  a  sechser."  She  understood  me  so  little 
however  that  she  gave  me  back  the  groschen  and 
kept  the  sechser. 

At  this  time,  while  I  was  making  almost  daily 
visits  to  the  young  princes  at  the  castle,  both  to 
play  as  well  as  to  study  French  with  them, 
another  image  comes  up  in  my  memory.  It  was 
the  daughter  of  the  Princess,  the  Countess  Marie. 
The  mother  died  shortly  after  the  birth  of  the 
child  and  the  Prince  subsequently  married  a  sec- 
ond time.  I  know  not  when  I  saw  her  for  the 
first  time.  She  emerges  from  the  darkness  of 
memory  slowly  and  gradually  —  at  first  like  an 
airy  shadow  which  grows  more  and  more  distinct 
as  it  approaches  nearer  and  nearer,  at  last  stand- 
ing before  my  soul  like  the  moon,  which  on  some 
stormy  night  throws  back  the  cloud-veils  from 
across  its  face.  She  was  always  sick  and  suffer- 
ing and  silent,  and  I  never  saw  her  except  reclin- 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  45 

ing  upon  her  couch,  upon  which  two  servants 
brought  her  into  the  room  and  carried  her  out 
again,  when  she  was  tired.  There  she  lay  in  her 
flowing  white  drapery,  with  her  hands  generally 
folded.  Her  face  was  so  pale  and  yet  so  mild, 
and  her  eyes  so  deep  and  unfathomable,  that 
I  often  stood  before  her  lost  in  thought  and 
looked  upon  her  and  asked  myself  if  she  was  not 
one  of  the  "  strange  people  "  also.  Many  a  time 
she  placed  her  hand  upon  my  head  and  then  it 
seemed  to  me  that  a  thrill  ran  through  all  my 
limbs  and  that  I  could  not  move  or  speak,  but 
must  forever  gaze  into  her  deep,  unfathomable 
eyes.  She  conversed  very  little  with  us,  but 
watched  our  sports,  and  when  at  times  we  grew 
very  noisy  and  quarrelsome,  she  did  not  com- 
plain but  held  her  white  hands  over  her  brow 
and  closed  her  eyes  as  if  sleeping.  But  there 
were  days  when  she  said  she  felt  better,  and  on 
such  days  she  sat  up  on  her  couch,  conversed 
with  us  and  told  us  curious  stories.  I  do  not 
know  how  old  she  was  at  that  time.  She  was  so 


46  THIRD  MEMORY. 

helpless  that  she  seemed  like  a  child,  and  yet  was 
so  serious  and  silent  that  she  could  not  have 
been  one.  When  people  alluded  to  her  they 
involuntarily  spoke  gently  and  softly.  They 
called  her  "  the  angel,"  and  I  never  heard  any- 
thing said  of  her  that  was  not  good  and  lovely. 
Often  when  I  saw  her  lying  so  silent  and  help- 
less, and  thought  that  she  would  never  walk 
again  in  life,  that  there  was  for  her  neither  work 
nor  joy,  that  they  would  carry  her  here  and  there 
upon  her  couch  until  they  laid  her  upon  her 
eternal  bed  of  rest,  I  asked  myself  why  she 
had  been  sent  into  this  world,  when  she  could 
have  rested  so  gently  on  the  bosom  of  the  angels 
and  they  could  have  borne  her  through  the  air 
on  their  white  wings,  as  I  had  seen  in  some 
sacred  pictures.  Again  I  felt  as  if  I  must  take 
a  part  of  her  burden,  so  that  she  need  not  carry 
it  alone,  but  we  with  her.  I  could  not  tell  her 
all  this  for  I  knew  it  was  not  proper.  I  had  an 
indefinable  feeling.  It  was  not  a  desire  to  em- 
brace her.  No  one  could  have  done  that,  for  it 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  47 

would  have  wronged  her.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if 
I  could  pray  from  the  very  bottom  of  my  heart 
that  she  might  be  released  from  her  burden. 

One  warm  spring  day  she  was  brought  into 
our  room.  She  looked  exceedingly  pale;  but 
her  eyes  were  deeper  and  brighter  than  ever, 
and  she  sat  upon  her  couch  and  called  us  to  her. 
"  It  is  my  birth-day,"  said  she,  "  and  I  was  con- 
firmed early  this  morning.  Now,  it  is  possible," 
she  continued  as  she  looked  upon  her  father 
with  a  smile,  "  that  God  may  soon  call  me  to  him, 
although  I  would  gladly  remain  with  you  much 
longer.  But  if  I  am  to  leave  you,  I  desire  that 
you  should  not  wholly  forget  me ;  and,  therefore, 
\  have  brought  a  ring  for  each  of  you,  which  you 
must  now  place  upon  the  fore-finger.  As  you 
grow  older  you  can  continue  to  change  it  until  it 
fits  the  little  finger;  but  you  must  wear  it  for 
your  lifetime." 

With  these  words  she  took  the  five  rings  she 
wore  upon  her  fingers,  which  she  drew  off,  one 
after  the  other,  with  a  look  so  sad  and  yet  so 


48  THIRD  MEMORY. 

affectionate,  that  I  pressed  my  eyes  closely  to 
keep  from  weeping.  She  gave  the  first  ring  to 
her  eldest  brother  and  kissed  him,  the  second 
and  third  to  the  two  princesses,  and  the  fourth 
to  the  youngest  prince,  and  kissed  them  all  as 
she  gave  them  the  rings.  I  stood  near  by,  and, 
looking  fixedly  at  her  white  hand,  saw  that  she 
still  had  a  ring  upon  her  finger ;  but  she  leaned 
back  and  appeared  wearied.  My  eyes  met  hers, 
and  as  the  eyes  of  a  child  speak  so  loudly,  she 
must  have  easily  known  my  thoughts.  I  would 
rather  not  have  had  the  last  ring,  for  I  felt  that  I 
was  a  stranger ;  that  I  did  not  belong  to  her,  and 
that  she  was  not  as  affectionate  to  me  as  to  her 
brothers  and  sisters.  Then  came  a  sharp  pain 
in  my  breast  as  if  a  vein  had  burst  or  a  nerve 
had  been  severed,  and  I  knew  not  which  way  to 
turn  to  conceal  my  anguish. 

She  soon  raised  herself  again,  placed  her 
hand  upon  my  forehead  and  looked  down  into 
my  heart  so  deeply  that  I  felt  I  had  not  a 
thought  invisible  to  her.  She  slowly  drew  the 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  49 

last  ring  from  her  ringer,  gave  it  to  me  and  said : 
"  I  intended  to  have  taken  this  with  me,  when  I 
went  from  you,  but  it  is  better  you  should  wear 
it  and  think  of  me  when  I  am  no  longer  with 
you.  Read  the  words  engraved  upon  the  ring: 
'As  God  wills.'  You  have  a  passionate  heart, 
easily  moved.  May  life  subdue  but  not  harden 
it."  Then  she  kissed  me  as  she  had  her  brothers 
and  gave  me  the  ring. 

All  my  feelings  I  do  not  truly  know.  I  had 
then  grown  up  to  boyhood,  and  the  mild  beauty 
of  the  suffering  angel  could  not  linger  in  my 
young  heart  without  alluring  it.  I  loved  her  as 
only  a  boy  can  love,  and  boys  love  with  an  in- 
tensity and  truth  and  purity  which  few  preserve 
in  their  youth  and  manhood ;  but  I  believed  she 
belonged  to  the  "  strange  people  "  to  whom  you 
are  not  allowed  to  speak  of  love.  I  scarcely  un- 
derstood the  earnest  words  she  spoke  to  me.  I 
only  felt  that  her  soul  was  as  near  to  mine  as  one 
human  soul  can  be  to  another.  All  bitterness 
was  gone  from  my  heart.  I  felt  myself  no  longer 
4 


50  THIRD  MEMORY. 

alone,  no  longer  a  stranger,  no  longer  shut  out. 
I  was  by  her,  with  her  and  in  her.  I  thought  it 
might  be  a  sacrifice  for  her  to  give  me  the  ring, 
and  that  she  might  have  preferred  to  take  it  to 
the  grave  with  her,  and  a  feeling  arose  in  my 
soul  which  overshadowed  all  other  feelings,  and 
I  said  with  quivering  voice :  "  Thou  must  keep 
the  ring  if  thou  dost  not  wish  to  give  it  to  me ; 
for  what  is  thine  is  mine."  She  looked  at  me  a 
moment  surprised  and  thoughtfully.  Then  she 
took  the  ring,  placed  it  on  her  finger,  kissed  me 
once  more  on  the  forehead,  and  said  gently  to 
me :  "  Thou  knowest  not  what  thou  sayest. 
Learn  to  understand  thyself.  Then  shalt  thou 
be  happy  and  make  many  others  happy." 


FOURTH    MEMORY. 


FOURTH   MEMORY. 


EVERY  life  has  its  years  in  which  one  pro- 
gresses as  on  a  tedious  and  dusty  street  of 
poplars,  without  caring  to  know  where  he  is.  Of 
these  years  nought  remains  in  memory  but  the 
sad  feeling  that  we  have  advanced  and  only 
grown  older.  While  the  river  of  life  glides  along 
smoothly,  it  remains  the  same  river;  only  the 
landscape  on  either  bank  seems  to  change.  But 
then  come  the  cataracts  of  life.  They  are  firmly 
fixed  in  memory,  and  even  when  we  are  past 
them  and  far  away,  and  draw  nearer  and  nearer 
to  the  silent  sea  of  eternity,  even  then  it  seems 
as  if  we  heard  from  afar  their  rush  and  roar. 
We  feel  that  the  life-force  which  yet  remains  and 
impels  us  onward  still  has  its  source  and  supply 
from  those  cataracts. 


54  FOURTH  MEMORY. 

School  time  was  ended,  the  first  fleeting  years 
of  university  life  were  over,  and  many  beautiful 
life-dreams  were  over  also.  But  one  of  them 
still  remained :  Faith  in  God  and  man.  Other- 
wise life  would  have  been  circumscribed  within 
one's  narrow  brain.  Instead  of  that,  a  nobler 
consecration  had  preserved  all,  and  even  the 
painful  and  incomprehensible  events  of  life  be- 
came a  proof  to  me  of  the  omnipresence  of  the 
divine  in  the  earthly.  "The  least  important 
thing  does  not  happen  except  as  God  wills  it." 
This  was  the  brief  life-wisdom  I  had  accu- 
mulated. 

During  the  summer  holidays  I  returned  to  my 
little  native  city.  What  joy  in  these  meetings 
again !  No  one  has  explained  it,  but  in  this  see- 
ing and  finding  again,  and  in  these  self-memories, 
lie  the  real  secrets  of  all  joy  and  pleasure.  What 
we  see,  hear  or  taste  for  the  first  time  may  be 
beautiful,  grand  and  agreeable,  but  it  is  too  new. 
It  overpowers,  but  gives  no  repose,  and  the 
fatigue  of  enjoying  is  greater  than  the  enjoyment 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  55 

itself.  To  hear  again,  years  afterward,  an  old 
melody,  every  note  of  which  we  supposed  we  had 
forgotten,  and  yet  to  recognize  it  as  an  old  ac- 
quaintance; or,  after  the  lapse  of  many  years,  to 
stand  once  more  before  the  Sistine  Madonna  at 
Dresden,  and  experience  afresh  all  the  emotions 
which  the  infinite  look  of  the  child  aroused  in  us 
for  years ;  or  to  smell  a  flower  or  taste  a  dish  again 
which  we  have  not  thought  of  since  childhood  — 
all  these  produce  such  an  intense  charm  that  we 
do  not  know  which  we  enjoy  most,  the  actual 
pleasure  or  the  old  memory.  So  when  we  return 
again,  after  long  absence,  to  our  birth-place,  the 
soul  floats  unconsciously  in  a  sea  of  memories, 
and  the  dancing  waves  dreamily  toss  themselves 
upon  the  shores  of  times  long  passed.  The  bel- 
fry clock  strikes  and  we  fear  we  shall  be  late  to 
school,  and  recovering  from  this  fear  feel  relieved 
that  our  anxiety  is  over.  The  same  dog  runs 
along  the  street  on  whose  account  we  used  to  go 
far  out  of  our  way.  Here  sits  the  old  huckster 
whose  apples  often  led  us  into  temptation,  and 


56  FOURTH  MEMORY. 

even  now,  we  fancy  they  must  taste  better  than 
all  other  apples  in  the  world,  notwithstanding  the 
dust  on  them.  There  one  has  torn  down  a  house 
and  built  a  new  one.  Here  the  old  music- 
teacher  lived.  He  is  dead  —  and  yet  how  beau- 
tiful it  seemed  as  we  stood  and  listened  on  sum- 
mer evenings  under  the  window  while  the  True 
Soul,  when  the  hours  of  the  day  were  over,  in- 
dulged in  his  own  enjoyment  and  played  fan- 
tasies, like  the  roaring  and  hissing  engine  letting 
off  the  steam  which  has  accumulated  during  the 
day.  Here  in  this  little  leafy  lane,  which  seemed 
at  that  time  so  much  larger,  as  I  was  coming 
home  late  one  evening,  I  met  our  neighbor's 
beautiful  daughter.  At  that  time  I  had  never 
ventured  to  look  at  or  address  her,  but  we  school- 
children often  spoke  of  her  and  called  her  "  the 
Beautiful  Maiden,"  and  whenever  I  saw  her  pass- 
ing along  the  street  at  a  distance  I  was  so  happy 
that  I  could  only  think  of  the  time  when  I  should 
meet  her  nearer.  Here  in  this  leafy  walk  which 
leads  to  the  church-yard,  I  met  her  one  evening 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  57 

and  she  took  me  by  the  arm,  although  we  had 
never  spoken  together  before,  and  asked  me  to 
go  home  with  her.  I  believe  neither  of  us  spoke 
a  word  the  whole  way ;  but  I  was  so  happy  that 
even  now,  after  all  these  years,  I  wish  it  were  that 
evening,  and  that  I  could  go  home  again,  silently 
and  blissfully,  with  "the  Beautiful  Maiden." 

Thus  one  memory  follows  another  until  the 
waves  dash  together  over  our  heads,  and  a  deep 
sigh  swells  the  breast,  which  warns  us  that  we 
have  forgotten  to  breathe  in  the  midst  of  these 
pure  thoughts.  Then  all  at  once,  the  whole 
dream-world  vanishes,  like  uprisen  ghosts  at  the 
crowing  of  the  cock. 

As  I  passed  by  the  old  castle  and  the  lindens, 
and  saw  the  sentinels  upon  their  horses,  how 
many  memories  awakened  in  my  soul,  and  how 
everything  had  changed !  Many  years  had 
flown  since  I  was  at  the  castle.  The  Princess 
was  dead.  The  Prince  had  given  up  his  rule 
and  gone  back  to  Italy,  and  the  oldest  prince, 
with  whom  I  had  grown  up,  was  regent.  His 


58  FOURTH  MEMORY. 

companions  were  young  noblemen  and  officers, 
whose  intercourse  was  congenial  to  him,  and 
whose  company  in  our  early  days  had  often 
estranged  us.  Other  circumstances  combined 
to  weaken  our  young  friendship.  Like  every 
young  man  who  perceives  for  the  first  time  the 
lack  of  unity  in  the  German  folk-life,  and  the 
defects  of  German  rule,  I  had  caught  up  some 
phrases  of  the  Liberal  party,  which  sounded  as 
strangely  at  court  as  unseemly  expressions  in  an 
honest  minister's  family.  In  short,  it  was  many 
years  since  I  had  ascended  those  stairs,  and  yet 
a  being  dwelt  in  that  castle  whose  name  I  had 
named  almost  daily,  and  who  was  almost  con- 
stantly present  in  my  memory.  I  had  long  dwelt 
upon  the  thought  that  I  should  never  see  her 
again  in  this  life.  She  was  transformed  into  an 
image  which  I  felt  neither  did  nor  could  exist 
in  reality  She  had  become  my  good  angel  — 
my  other  self,  to  whom  I  talked  instead  of  talk- 
ing with  myself.  How  she  became  so  I  could 
not  explain  to  myself,  for  I  scarcely  knew  her. 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  59 

Just  as  the  eye  sometimes  pictures  figures  in  the 
clouds,  so  I  fancied  my  imagination  had  con- 
jured up  this  sweet  image  in  the  heaven  of  my 
childhood,  and  a  complete  picture  of  phantasy 
developed  itself  out  of  the  scarcely  perceptible 
outlines  of  reality.  My  entire  thought  had  invol- 
untarily become  a  dialogue  with  her,  and  all  that 
was  good  in  me,  all  for  which  I  struggled,  all  in 
which  I  believed,  my  entire  better  self,  belonged 
to  her.  I  gave  it  to  her.  I  received  it  from 
her,  from  her  my  good  angel. 

I  had  been  at  home  but  a  few  days,  when  I 
received  a  letter  one  morning.  It  was  written 
in  English,  and  came  from  the  Countess  Marie : 

Dear  Friend:  I  hear  you  are  with  us  for  a  short 
time.  We  have  not  met  for  many  years,  and  if  it  is 
agreeable  to  you,  I  should  like  to  see  an  old  friend 
again.  You  will  find  me  alone  this  afternoon  in  the 

Swiss  Cottage.  Yours  sincerely, 

MARIE. 

I  immediately  replied,  also  in  English,  that  I 
would  call  in  the  afternoon. 


60  FOURTH  MEMORY. 

The  Swiss  Cottage  constituted  a  wing  of  the 
castle,  which  overlooked  the  garden,  and  could 
be  reached  without  going  through  the  castle 
yard.  It  was  five  o'clock  when  I  passed  through 
the  garden  and  approached  the  cottage.  I  re- 
pressed all  emotion  and  prepared  myself  for  a 
formal  meeting.  I  sought  to  quiet  my  good 
angel,  and  to  assure  her  that  this  lady  had 
nothing  to  do  with  her.  And  yet  I  felt  very 
uneasy,  and  my  good  angel  would  not  listen  to 
counsel.  Finally  I  took  courage,  murmuring 
something  to  myself  about  the  masquerade  of 
life,  and  rapped  on  the  door,  which  stood  ajar. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  room  except  a  lady 
whom  I  did  not  know,  and  who  likewise  spoke 
English,  and  said  the  Countess  would  be  present 
in  a  moment.  She  then  left,  and  I  was  alone, 
and  had  time  to  look  about. 

The  walls  of  the  room  were  of  rose-chestnut, 
and  over  an  openwork  trellis,  a  luxuriant  broad- 
leaved  ivy  twined  around  the  whole  room.  All 
the  tables  and  chairs  were  of  carved  rose-chest- 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  61 

nut.  The  floor  was  of  variegated  woodwork.  It 
gave  me  a  curious  sensation  to  see  so  much  that 
was  familiar  in  the  room.  Many  articles  from 
our  old  play-room  in  the  castle  were  old  friends, 
but  the  others  were  new,  especially  the  pictures, 
and  yet  they  were  the  same  as  those  in  my  Uni- 
versity room  —  the  same  portraits  of  Beethoven, 
Handel  and  Mendelssohn,  as  I  had  selected  — 
hung  over  the  grand  piano.  In  one  corner  I  saw 
the  Venus  di  Milo,  which  I  always  regarded  as 
the  masterpiece  of  antiquity.  On  the  table  were 
volumes  of  Dante,  Shakspeare,  Tauler's  Sermons, 
the  "  German  Theology,"  Ruckert's  Poems,  Ten- 
nyson and  Burns,  and  Carlyle's  "  Past  and  Pres- 
ent,"—  the  very  same  books  —  all  of  which  I  had 
had  but  recently  in  my  hands.  I  was  growing 
thoughtful,  but  I  repressed  my  thoughts  and  was 
just  standing  before  the  portrait  of  the  deceased 
Princess,  when  the  door  opened,  and  the  same 
two  servants,  whom  I  had  so  often  seen  in  child- 
hood, brought  the  Countess  into  the  room  upon 
her  couch. 


62  FOURTH  MEMORY. 

What  a  vision!  She  spoke  not  a  word,  and 
her  countenance  was  as  placid  as  the  sea,  until 
the  servants  left  the  room.  Then  her  eyes 
sought  me  —  the  old,  deep,  unfathomable  eyes. 
Her  expression  grew  more  animated  each  instant. 
At  last  her  whole  face  lit  up,  and  she  said : 

"We  are  old  friends  —  I  believe  ;  we  have  not 
changed.  I  cannot  say  'You,'  and  if  I  may  not 
say  'Thou,'  then  we  must  speak  in  English.  Do 
you  understand  me?" 

I  had  not  anticipated  such  a  reception,  for  I 
saw  here  was  no  masquerade  —  here  was  a  soul 
which  longed  for  another  soul  —  here  was  a 
greeting  like  that  between  two  friends  who  rec- 
ognize each  other  by  the  glance  of  the  eye,  not- 
withstanding their  disguises  and  dark  masks. 
I  seized  the  hand  she  held  out  to  me,  and  re- 
plied :  "  When  we  address  an  angel,  we  cannot 
say  'You.'" 

And  yet  how  singular  is  the  influence  of  the 
forms  and  habits  of  life !  How  difficult  it  is  to 
speak  the  language  of  nature  even  to  the  most 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  63 

congenial  souls !  Our  conversation  halted,  and 
both  of  us  felt  the  embarrassment  of  the  moment. 
I  broke  the  silence  and  spoke  out  my  thoughts : 
"  Men  become  accustomed  to  live  from  youth 
up  as  it  were  in  a  cage,  and  when  they  are  once 
in  the  open  air  they  dare  not  venture  to  use  their 
wings,  fearing,  if  they  fly,  that  they  may  stumble 
against  everything." 

"Yes,"  replied  she,  "and  that  is  very  proper 
and  cannot  well  be  otherwise.  One  often  wishes 
that  he  could  live  like  the  birds  which  fly  in  the 
woods,  and  meet  upon  the  branches  and  sing 
together  without  being  presented  to  each  other. 
But,  my  friend,  even  among  the  birds  there  are 
owls  and  sparrows,  and  in  life  it  is  well  that  one 
can  pass  them  without  knowing  them.  It  is 
sometimes  with  life  as  with  poetry.  As  the  real 
poet  can  express  the  Truest  and  most  Beautiful, 
although  fettered  by  metrical  form,  so  man 
should  know  how  to  preserve  freedom  of  thought 
and  feeling  notwithstanding  the  restraints  of 
society." 


64  FOURTH  MEMORY. 

I  could  not  help  recalling  the  words  of 
Platen :  "  That  which  proves  itself  everlasting 
under  all  circumstances,  told  in  the  fetters  of 
words,  is  the  unfettered  spirit." 

"Yes,"  said  she,  with  a  cordial  but  sweetly 
playful  smile ;  "  but  I  have  a  privilege  which  is 
at  the  same  time  my  burden  and  loneliness.  I 
often  pity  the  young  men  and  maidens,  for  they 
cannot  have  a  friendship  or  an  intimacy  without 
their  relatives  or  themselves  pronouncing  it  love, 
or  what  they  call  love.  They  lose  much  on  this 
account.  The  maiden  knows  not  what  slumbers 
in  her  soul,  and  what  might  be  awakened 'by 
earnest  conversation  with  a  noble  friend ;  and 
the  young  man  in  turn  would  acquire  so  much 
knightly  virtue  if  women  were  suffered  to  be  the 
distant  witnesses  of  the  inner  struggles  of  the 
spirit.  It  will  not  do,  however,  for  immediately 
love  comes  in  play,  or  what  they  call  love  —  the 
quick  beating  of  the  heart  —  the  stormy  billows 
of  hope  —  the  delight  over  a  beautiful  face  —  the 
sweet  sentimentality — sometimes  also  prudent 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  65 

calculation  —  in  short,  all  that  troubles  the  calm 
sea,  which  is  the.  true  picture  of  pure  human 
love " 

She  checked  herself  suddenly,  and  an  expres- 
sion of  pain  passed  over  her  countenance.  "I 
dare  not  talk  more  to-day,"  said  she ;  "  my  physi- 
cian will  not  allow  it.  I  would  like  to  hear  one 
of  Mendelssohn's  songs  —  that  duet,  which  my 
young  friend  used  to  play  years  ago.  Is  it  not 
so?" 

I  could  not  answer,  for  as  she  ceased  speak- 
ing and  gently  folded  her  hands,  I  saw  upon  her 
hand  a  ring.  She  wore  it  on  her  little  finger — 
the  ring  which  she  had  given  me  and  I  had 
given  her.  Thoughts  came  too  fast  for  utter- 
ance, and  I  seated  myself  at  the  piano  and 
played.  When  I  had  done,  I  turned  around 
and  said:  "Would  one  could  only  speak  thus 
in  tones  without  words!" 

"That  is  possible,"  said  she;  "I  understood 
it  all.  But  I  must  not  do  anything  more  to-day, 
for  every  day  I  grow  weaker.  We  must  be  better 


66  FOURTH  MEMORY, 

acquainted,  and  a  poor  sick  recluse  may  cer- 
tainly claim  forbearance.  We  meet  to-morrow 
evening,  at  the  same  hour;  shall  we  not?" 

I  seized  her  hand  and  was  about  to  kiss  it, 
but  she  held  my  hand  firmly,  pressed  it  and 
said:  "It  is  better  thus.  Good  bye." 


FIFTH    MEMORY. 


FIFTH   MEMORY. 


IT  would  be  difficult  to  describe  my  thoughts 
and  emotions  as  I  went  home.  The  soul 
cannot  at  once  translate  itself  perfectly  in  words, 
and  there  are  "  thoughts  without  words,"  which 
in  every  man  are  the  prelude  of  supreme  joy  and 
suffering.  It  was  neither  joy  nor  pain,  only  an 
indescribable  bewilderment  which  I  felt ;  thoughts 
flew  through  my  innermost  being  like  meteors, 
which  shoot  from  heaven  towards  earth  but  are 
extinguished  before  they  reach  the  goal.  As  we 
sometimes  say  in  a  dream,  "  I  am  dreaming,"  so 
I  said  to  myself  "  thou  livest" — "it  is  she."  I 
tried  again  to  reflect  and  calm  myself,  and  said, 
"  She  is  a  lovely  vision  —  a  very  wonderful  spirit." 
At  another  time,  I  pictured  the  delightful  even- 
ings I  should  pass  during  the  holidays.  But  no, 


70  FIFTH  MEMORY. 

no,  this  cannot  be.  She  is  everything  I  sought, 
thought,  hoped  and  believed.  Here  was  at  last 
a  human  soul,  as  clear  and  fresh  as  a  spring 
morning.  I  had  seen  at  the  first  glance  what  she 
was  and  how  she  felt,  and  we  had  greeted  and 
recognized  one  another.  And  my  good  angel  in 
me,  she  answered  me  no  more.  She  was  gone 
and  I  felt  there  was  no  place  on  earth  where  I 
should  find  her  again. 

Now  began  a  beautiful  life,  for  I  was  with  her 
every  evening.  We  soon  realized  that  we  were 
in  truth  old  acquaintances  and  that  we  could 
only  call  each  other  Thou.  It  seemed  also  as  if 
we  had  lived  near  and  with  one  another  always, 
for  she  manifested  not  an  emotion  that  did  not 
find  its  counterpart  in  my  soul,  and  there  was  no 
thought  which  I  uttered  to  which  she  did  not 
nod  friendly  assent,  as  much  as  to  say :  "  I 
thought  so  too.''  I  had  previously  heard  the 
greatest  master  of  our  time  and  his  sister  extem- 
porize on  the  piano,  and  scarcely  comprehended 
how  two  persons  could  understand  and  feel 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  71 

themselves  so  perfectly  and  yet  never,  not  even 
in  a  single  note,  disturb  the  harmony  of  their 
playing.  Now  it  became  intelligible  to  me.  Yes, 
now  I  understood  for  the  first  time  that  my  soul 
was  not  so  poor  and  empty  as  it  had  seemed  to 
me,  and  that  it  had  been  only  the  sun  that  was 
lacking  to  open  all  its  germs  and  buds  to  the 
light.  And  yet  what  a  sad  and  brief  spring-time 
it  was  that  our  souls  experienced !  We  forget  in 
May  that  roses  so  soon  wither,  but  here  every 
evening  reminded  us  that  one  leaf  after  another 
was  falling  to  the  ground.  She  felt  it  before  I 
did,  and  alluded  to  it  apparently  without  pain, 
and  our  interviews  grew  more  earnest  and  solemn 
daily. 

One  evening,  as  I  was  about  to  leave,  she 
said :  "  I  did  not  think  I  should  grow  so  old. 
When  I  gave  you  the  ring  on  my  confirmation 
day  I  thought  I  should  have  to  take  my  de- 
parture from  you  all,  very  soon.  And  yet  I 
have  lived  so  many  years,  and  enjoyed  so  much 
beauty  —  and  suffered  so  very  much.'  But  one 


72  FIFTH  MEMORY. 

forgets  that!  Now,  while  I  feel  that  my  de- 
parture is  near,  every  hour,  every  minute, 
grows  precious  to  me.  Good  night!  Do  not 
come  too  late  to-morrow." 

One  day  as  I  went  into  her  room,  I  met  an 
Italian  painter  with  her.  She  spoke  Italian  with 
him,  and  although  he  was  evidently  more  artisan 
than  artist,  she  addressed  him  with  such  amia- 
bility and  modesty,  with  such  respect  even,  one 
could  not  avoid  recognizing  that  nobility  of  soul 
which  is  the  true  nobility  of  birth.  When  the 
painter  had  taken  his  leave,  she  said  to  me :  "  I 
wish  to  show  you  a  picture  which  will  please 
you.  The  original  is  in  the  gallery  at  Paris.  I 
read  a  description  of  it,  and  have  had  it  copied 
by  the  Italian."  She  showed  me  the  painting, 
and  waited  my  opinion.  It  was  a  picture  of  a 
man  of  middle  age,  in  the  old  German  costume. 
The  expression  was  dreamy  and  resigned,  and  so 
characteristic  that  no  one  could  doubt  this  man 
once  lived.  The  whole  tone  of  the  picture  in 
the  foreground  was  dark  and  brownish;  but  in 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  73 

the  background  was  a  landscape,  and  on  the 
horizon  the  first  gleams  of  daybreak  appeared. 
I  could  discover  nothing  special  in  the  picture, 
and  yet  it  produced  a  feeling  of  such  satisfaction 
that  one  might  have  tarried  to  look  at  it  for 
hours  at  a  time.  "  There  is  nothing  like  a  genu- 
ine human  face,"  said  I ;  "  Raphael  himself  could 
not  have  imagined  a  face  like  this." 

"  No,"  said  she.  "  But  now  I  will  tell  you 
why  I  wished  to  have  the  picture.  I  read  that 
no  one  knew  the  artist,  nor  whom  the  picture 
represents.  But  it  is  very  clearly  a  philosopher 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  Just  such  a  picture  I 
wanted  for  my  gallery,  for  you  are  aware  that 
no  one  knows  the  author  of  the  '  German  The- 
ology,' and  moreover,  that  we  have  no  picture  of 
him.  I  wished  to  try  whether  the  picture  of  an 
Unknown  by  an  Unknown  would  answer  for  our 
German  theologian,  and  if  you  have  no  objec- 
tions we  will  hang  it  here  between  the  'Albi- 
genses '  and  the  '  Diet  of  Worms,'  and  call  it  the 
'  German  Theologian.' " 


74  FIFTH  MEMORY. 

"  Good,"  said  I ;  "  but  it  is  somewhat  too 
vigorous  and  manly  for  the  Frankforter." 

"That  may  be,"  replied  she.  " But  for  a  suf- 
fering and  dying  life  like  mine,  much  consolation 
and  strength  may  be  derived  from  his  book.  I 
thank  him  much,  for  it  disclosed  to  me  for  the 
first  time  the  true  secret  of  Christian  doctrine 
in  all  its  simplicity.  I  felt  that  I  was  free  to 
believe  or  disbelieve  the  old  teacher,  whoever  he 
may  have  been,  for  his  doctrines  had  no  external 
constraint  upon  me;  at  last  it  seized  upon  me 
with  such  power  that  it  seemed  to  me  I  knew 
for  the  first  time  what  revelation  was.  It  is 
precisely  this  fact  that  bars  so  many  out  from 
true  Christianity,  namely :  that  its  doctrines  con- 
front us  as  revelation  before  revelation  takes 
place  in  ourselves.  This  has  often  given  me 
much  anxiety ;  not  that  I  had  ever  doubted  the 
truth  and  divinity  of  our  religion,  but  I  felt  I  had 
no  right  to  a  belief  which  others  had  given  me, 
and  that  what  I  had  learned  and  received  when 
a  child,  without  comprehending,  did  not  belong 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  75 

to  me.  One  can  believe  for  us  as  little  as  one 
can  live  and  die  for  us." 

"  Certainly,"  said  I ;  "  therein  lies  the  cause 
of  many  hot  and  bitter  struggles ;  that  the  teach- 
ings of  Christ,  instead  of  winning  our  hearts 
gradually  and  irresistibly,  as  they  won  the  hearts 
of  the  apostles  and  early  Christians,  confront  us 
from  the  earliest  childhood  as  the  infallible  law 
of  a  mighty  church,  and  demand  of  us  an  un- 
conditional submission,  which  they  call  faith. 
Doubts  arise  sooner  or  later  in  the  breast  of 
every  one  who  has  the  power  of  thinking  and 
reverence  for  the  truth ;  and  then  even  when  we 
are  on  the  right  road,  to  overcome  our  faith, 
the  terrors  of  doubt  and  unbelief  arise  and  dis- 
turb the  tranquil  development  of  the  new  life." 

"I  read  recently  in  an  English  work,"  she 
interrupted,  "that  truth  makes  revelation,  and 
not  revelation  truth.  This  perfectly  expressed 
what  I  found  in  reading  the  'German  Theology.' 
I  read  the  book,  and  I  felt  the  power  of  its 
truths  so  overwhelmingly  that  I  was  compelled 


76  FIFTH  MEMORY. 

to  submit  to  it.  The  truth  was  revealed  to  me ; 
or  rather,  I  was  revealed  to  myself,  and  I  felt 
for  the  first  time  what  belief  meant.  The  truth 
which  had  long  slumbered  in  my  soul  belonged 
to  me,  but  it  was  the  word  of  the  unknown 
teacher  which  filled  me  with  light,  illuminated 
my  inner  vision,  and  brought  out  my  indistinct 
presentiments  in  fuller  clearness  before  my  soul. 
When  I  had  thus  experienced  for  the  first  time 
how  the  human  soul  can  believe,  I  read  the 
Gospels  as  if  they,  too,  had  been  written  by  an 
unknown  man,  and  banished  the  thought  as  well 
as  I  could  that  they  were  an  inspiration  from 
the  Holy  Ghost  to  the  apostles,  in  some  won- 
derful manner;  that  they  had  been  endorsed  by 
the  councils  and  proclaimed  by  the  church  as 
the  supreme  authority  of  the  alone-saving  belief. 
Then,  for  the  first  time,  I  understood  what  Chris- 
tian faith  and  revelation  were." 

"It  is  wonderful,"  said  I,  "that  the  theolo- 
gians have  not  broken  down  all  religion,  and 
they  will  succeed  yet,  if  the  believers  do  not 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  77 

seriously  confront  them  and  say :  '  Thus  far  but 
no  farther.'  Every  church  must  have  its  ser- 
vants, but  there  has  been  as  yet  no  religion 
which  the  Priests,  the  Brahmins,  the  Schamins, 
the  Bonzes,  the  Lamas,  the  Pharisees,  or  the 
Scribes  have  not  corrupted  and  perverted.  They 
wrangle  and  dispute  in  a  language  unintelligible 
to  nine-tenths  of  their  congregations,  and  instead 
of  permitting  themselves  to  be  inspired  by  the 
apostles,  and  of  inspiring  others  with  their  inspi- 
ration, they  construct  long  arguments  to  show 
that  the  Gospels  must  be  true,  because  they 
were  written  by  inspired  men.  But  this  is  only 
a  makeshift  for  their  own  unbelief.  How  can 
they  know  that  these  men  were  inspired  in  a 
wonderful  manner,  without  ascribing  to  them- 
selves a  still  more  wonderful  inspiration  ?  There- 
fore they  extend  the  gift  of  inspiration  to  the 
fathers  of  the  church;  they  attribute  to  them 
those  very  things  which  the  majority  have  incor- 
porated in  the  canons  of  the  councils ;  and  there 
again,  when  the  question  arises  how  we  know 


78  FIFTH  MEMORY. 

that  of  fifty  bishops  twenty-six  were  inspired 
and  twenty-four  were  not,  they  finally  take  the 
last  desperate  step,  and  say  that  infallibility  and 
inspiration  are  inherent  in  the  heads  of  the 
church  down  to  the  present  day,  through  the 
laying  on  of  hands,  so  that  infallibility,  majority 
and  inspiration  make  all  our  convictions,  all 
resignation,  all  devout  intuitions,  superfluous. 
And  yet,  notwithstanding  all  these  connecting 
links,  the  first  question  returns  in  all  its  simpli- 
city :  How  can  B  know  that  A  is  inspired,  if  B 
is  not  equally,  or  even  more,  inspired  than  A? 
For  it  is  of  more  consequence  to  know  that  A 
was  inspired  than  for  one's  self  to  be  inspired." 

"I  have  never  comprehended  this  so  clearly 
myself,"  said  she.  "But  I  have  often  felt  how 
difficult  it  must  be  to  know  whether  one  loves 
who  shows  not  a  sign  of  love  that  could  not  be 
imitated.  And,  again,  I  have  thought  that  no 
one  could  know  it  unless  he  knew  love  himself, 
and  that  he  could  only  believe  in  the  love  of 
another  so  far  as  he  believed  in  his  own  love. 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  79 

As  with  the  gift  of  love  so  is  it  with  the  gift  of 
the  Holy  Spirit.  They  upon  whom  it  descended 
heard  a  rushing  from  heaven  as  of  a  mighty 
wind,  and  there  appeared  to  them  cloven  tongues 
like  as  of  fire.  But  the  rest  were  either  amazed 
and  perplexed,  or  they  made  sport  of  them  and 
said  :  '  They  are  full  of  sweet  wine.' 

"  Still,  as  I  said  to  you,  it  is  the  '  German 
Theology '  to  which  I  am  indebted  for  learning 
to  believe  in  my  belief,  and  what  will  seem  a 
weakness  to  many,  strengthened  me  the  most; 
namely,  that  the  old  master  never  stops  to  dem- 
onstrate his  propositions  rigidly,  but  scatters 
them  like  a  sower,  in  the  hope  that  some  grains 
will  fall  upon  good  soil  and  bear  fruit  a  thousand 
fold.  So  our  Divine  Master  never  attempted  to 
prove  his  doctrines,  for  the  perfect  conviction  of 
truth  disdains  the  form  of  a  demonstration." 

"Yes,"  I  interrupted  her,  for  I  could  not  help 
thinking  of  the  wonderful  chain  of  proof  in 
Spinoza's  'Ethics,'  "the  straining  after  demon- 
stration by  Spinoza  gives  me  the  impression  that 


8o  FIFTH  MEMOR  Y. 

this  acute  thinker  could  not  have  believed  in  his 
own  doctrines  with  his  whole  heart,  and  that  he 
therefore  felt  the  necessity  of  fastening  every 
mesh  of  his  net  with  the  utmost  care.  "  Still,"  I 
continued,  "  I  must  acknowledge  I  do  not  share 
this  great  admiration  for  the  '  German  Theology,' 
although  I  owe  the  book  many  a  doubt.  To  me 
there  is  a  lack  of  the  human  and  the  poetical  in 
it,  and  of  warm  feeling  and  reverence  for  reality 
altogether.  The  entire  mysticism  of  the  four- 
teenth century  is  wholesome  as  a  preparative,  but 
it  first  reaches  solution  in  the  divinely  holy  and 
divinely  courageous  return  to  real  life,  as  was 
exemplified  by  Luther.  Man  must  at  some  time 
in  his  life  recognize  his  nothingness.  He  must 
feel  that  he  is  nothing  of  himself,  that  his  exist- 
ence, his  beginning,  his  everlasting  life  are  rooted 
in  the  superearthly  and  incomprehensible.  That 
is  the  returning  to  God  which  in  reality  is  never 
concluded  on  earth  but  yet  leaves  behind  in  the 
soul  a  divine  home  sickness,  which  never  again 
ceases.  But  man  cannot  ignore  the  creation  as  the 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  8 1 

Mystics  would.  Although  created  out  of  nothing, 
that  is,  through  and  out  of  God,  he  cannot  of  his 
own  power  resolve  himself  back  into  this  noth- 
ingness. The  self-annihilation  of  which  Tauler 
so  often  speaks  is  scarcely  better  than  the  sink- 
ing away  of  the  human  soul  in  Nirvana,  as  the 
Buddhists  have  it.  Thus  Tauler  says:  'That 
if  he  by  greater  reverence  and  love  could  reach 
the  highest  existence  in  non-existence,  he  would 
willingly  sink  from  his  height  into  the  deepest 
abyss.'  But  this  annihilation  of  the  creature  was 
not  the  purpose  of  the  Creator  since  he  made  it. 
'God  is  transformed  in  man,'  says  Augustine, 
'not  man  in  God.'  Thus  mysticism  should  be 
only  a  fire-trial  which  steels  the  soul  but  does  not 
evaporate  it  like  boiling  water  in  a  kettle.  He 
who  has  recognized  the  nothingness  of  self  ought 
to  recognize  this  self  as  a  reflection  of  the  actual 
divine.  The  '  German  Theology '  says : 

[,,2Ba§  nu  ii§  geflof§en  i§t,  ba§  i§t  ntrf)t  roar 
roe§en,  unb  Ijat  fein  roeSen  anberS  ban  in  bent  volt 
fomen,  Sunber  e§  i§t  etn  pfal  ober  ein  gla§t  unb  etn 


82  FIFTH  MEMORY. 

§c$tn,  ber  nicf)t  toe§en  i§t  ober  nidjt  roe§en  ^at  anber§, 
ban  in  bem  feroer,  ba  ber  gla§t  u§  flufSet,  al§  in  ber 
§unnen  ober  in  einem  Itecf)te."  ] 

"What  has  flown  out  is  not  real  substance 
and  has  no  other  reality  except  in  the  perfect; 
but  it  is  an  incident  or  a  glare  or  a  shimmer, 
which  is  no  substance,  and  has  no  other  reality, 
except  in  the  fire  from  which  a  glare  proceeds, 
as  in  the  sun  or  a  light." 

"  What  is  emitted  from  the  divine,  though  it 
be  only  like  the  reflection  from  the  fire,  still  has 
the  divine  reality  in  itself,  and  one  might  almost 
ask  whatVere  the  fire  without  glow,  the  sun  with- 
out light,  or  the  Creator  without  the  creature? 
These  are  questions  of  which  it  is  said  very 
truthfully : 

[  ,,2BeIdj  menfcfje  unb  roelc^e  creatur  Begert  ju  erfa; 
ten  unb  ju  rotten  ben  fyetmlidjen  rat  unb  nriften 
gotte§,  ber  Begert  ntcfjt  anber§  benne  al§  5lbam  let 
unb  ber&oSe  gei§t."] 

"  What  man  or  creature  desires  to  learn  and 
to  know  the  secret  counsel  and  will  of  God  — 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  83 

desires  nothing  else  but  what  Adam  did  and  the 
evil  spirit. 

"  For  this  reason,  it  should  be  enough  for  us 
to  feel  and  to  appear  that  we  are  a  reflection  of 
the  divine  until  we  are  divine.  No  one  should 
place  under  a  bushel  or  extinguish  the  divine 
light  which  illuminates  us,  but  let  it  beam  out, 
that  it  may  brighten  and  warm  all  about  it.  Then 
one  feels  a  living  fire  in  his  veins,  and  a  higher 
consecration  for  the  struggle  of  life.  The  most 
trivial  duties  remind  us  of  God.  The  earthly 
becomes  divine,  the  temporal  eternal,  and  our 
entire  life  a  life  in  God.  God  is  not  eternal 
repose.  He  is  everlasting  life,  which  Angelus 
Silesius  forgets  when  he  says :  '  God  is  without 
will.' 

'  We  pray :  '  Thy  will  my  Lord  and  God  be  done,' 
And  lo,  He  has  no  will!     He  is  an  eternal  silence.'" 

She  listened  to  me  quietly,  and,  after  a  mo- 
ment's reflection,  said:  "Health  and  strength 
belong  to  your  faith;  but  there  are  life-weary 


84  FIFTH  MEMORY. 

souls,  who  long  for  rest  and  sleep,  and  feel  so 
lonely  that  when  they  fall  asleep  in  God,  they 
miss  the  world  as  little  as  the  world  misses  them. 
It  is  a  foretaste  of  divine  rest  to  them  when  they 
can  wrap  themselves  in  the  divine ;  and  this  they 
can  do,  since  no  tie  binds  them  fast  to  earth,  and 
no  wish  troubles  their  hearts  except  the  wish  for 
rest. 

'  Rest  is  the  highest  good,  and  were  God  not  rest, 
Then  would  I  avert  my  gaze  even  from  Him.' 

"You  do  the  German  theologian  an  injustice. 
It  is  true  he  teaches  the  nothingness  of  thtf 
external  life,  but  he  does  not  wish  to  see  it  anni- 
hilated. Read  me  the  twenty-eighth  chapter." 

I  took  the  book  and  read,  while  she  closed 
her  eyes  and  listened  : 

[ ,  ,Unb  nm  bie  ooretmmge  geSdjtdjt  in  ber  roaljrfjeit 
unb  tt>e§entltdj  nrirt,  ba  §tet  »orba[§  ber  inner  men§d)e 
in  ber  etnung  unberoeglidE)  nnb  got  le§t  ben  uf§ern 
men§d)en  fyer  unb  bar  beroegt  raerben  Don  bte§em  jit 
bem.  J£)Q§  muf§  unb  §ol  §tn  unb  geScfjeljen,  ba[§  ber 
ufSer  menSc^e  §pricE)t  unb  e§  oud)  in  ber  roarljett  al§o 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  85 

i§t,  ,,tdj  roil  roeber  §in  nod;  nit  §in,  roebcr  leben  ober 
Sterben,  roifSen  ober  nid;t  roif§en,  tun  ober  laf§en, 
itnb  aHe§  ba§  bt§em  glid;  i§t,  Sunber  atte§,  ba§  ba 
muf§  unb  Sol  §tn  unb  ge§d;efjen,  ba  bin  id;  bereit 
unb  gel;or§am  gu,  e§  §t  in  libenber  rot§e  ober  in 
tuenber  roi§e."  Unb  alSoe  ^at  ber  u[§er  men§d;  fein 
roarumbe  ober  ge§urf),  Sunber  atteine  bent  eroigen 
roiffen  genuf  ju  §in.  SBan  ba§  roirt  befannt  in  ber 
roarfjeit,  ba§  ber  inner  menSdtje  §ten  §ol  unberoeglid^ 
unb  ber  itf§er  menSd;  nmf§  unb  §ol  beroegt  roerben, 
unb  §at  ber  inner  men§dj  in  Siner  beroeglifeit  ein 
roarumb,  ba§  i§t  anber§  ntc^t§  bann  ein  muf§;  unb 
§ol''$in,  georbnet  oon  bem  eroigen  roiflen.  llnb  roo 
got  Selber  ber  ntenSc^  roere  ober  i§t,  ba  i§t  e§  al§o. 
3)a§  merfet  man  rool  in  $ri§to.  Ou^  roa  ba§  in 
goiHdjem  unb  u§  gotlid^em  tied^te  i§t,  ba  i§t  nit  gei§t* 
iidje  §od;[art  nod;  unad;t§ame  fri^ett  ober  frte  gemute, 
Sunber  ein  gruntlo§e  bemutigfeit  unb  ein  niber  ^ 
§d)lagen  unb  ein  ge§unfen  betrubet  gemut,  unb  aHe 
orbenligfeit  unb  rebeligfeit,  glid;§eit  unb  roar^eit, 
fribe  unb  genitg§amfeit,  unb  affe§  ba§,  ba§  aHen 
tugenben  ju  gefjort,  ba§  muf§  ba  §in.  2Ba  e§  anber§ 
i§t,  ba  i§t  im  nit  red;t,  al§  »or  gefprod;en  ift.  2Ban 
red;t  al§  bi§e§  ober  ba§  ju  bi§er  einung  nit  ge^elfen 
ober  gebtenen  fan,  al§o  i§t  oud;  nidjte§,  ba§  e§  geirren 
ober  gefyinbern  mag,  benn  atteinc  ber  menSdj  mit 


86  FIFTH  MEMORY. 

Sinem  etgen  nnHen,  ber  tut  im  biSen  gro[0en  §d)aben. 
Sol  man  nnfSen."] 


"And  when  the  union  takes  place  in  truth 
and  becomes  real,  then  the  inner  man  stands 
henceforth  immovable  in  the  union,  and  God 
permits  the  outer  man  to  be  driven  hither  and 
thither  from  this  to  that.  It  must  and  shall  be 
and  happen,  that  the  outer  man  says  —  and  is  so 
also  in  truth  —  'I  will  neither  be  nor  not  be, 
neither  live  nor  die,  neither  know  nor  not  know, 
neither  do  nor  leave  undone  —  and  everything 
which  is  similar  to  this,  but  I  am  ready  and 
obedient  to  do  everything,  which  must  and  shall 
be  done,  be  it  passively  or  actively.'  And  thus 
has  the  outer  man  no  question  or  desire,  but  to 
satisfy  only  the  Eternal  Will.  When  this  will  be 
known  in  truth,  that  the  inner  man  shall  stand 
immovable,  and  that  the  outer  man  shall  and 
must  be  moved,  —  the  inner  man  has  a  why  and 
wherefore  of  his  moving,  which  is  nothing  but 
an  '  it  must  and  shall  be  '  ordered  by  the  Eternal 
Will.  And  if  God  himself  were  or  is  the  man, 
it  would  be  so.  This  is  well  seen  in  Christ. 
And  what  in  the  Divine  Light  is  and  from  the 
Divine  Light,  has  neither  spiritual  pride  nor 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  87 

careless  license  nor  an  independent  spirit  —  but 
a  great  humility,  and  a  broken  and  contrite 
heart, —  and  all  propriety  and  honesty,  justice 
and  truth,  peace  and  happiness, —  all  that  be- 
longs to  all  virtues,  it  must  have.  When  it  is 
otherwise,  then  he  is  not  happy,  as  has  been 
said.  When  this  does  not  help  to  this  union, 
then  there  is  nothing  which  may  hinder  it  but 
man  alone  with  his  own  will,  which  does  him 
such  great  harm.  That,  one  ought  to  know." 

"This  is  sufficient,"  said  she;  "I  believe  we 
understand  each  other  now.  In  another  place, 
our  unknown  friend  says  still  more  unmistakably 
that  no  man  is  passive  before  death,  and  that  the 
glorified  man  is  like  the  hand  of  God,  which 
does  nothing  of  itself  except  as  God  wills;  or, 
like  a  house  in  which  God  dwells.  A  God- 
possessed  man  feels  this  perfectly,  but  does  not 
speak  of  it.  He  treasures  his  life  in  God  like 
a  love  secret.  It  often  seems  to  me  like  that 
silver  poplar  before  my  window.  It  is  perfectly 
still  at  evening,  and  not  a  leaf  trembles  or  stirs. 
When  the  morning  breeze  rustles  and  tosses 


FIFTH  MEMORY. 


every  leaf,  the  trunk  with  its  branches  stands  still 
and  immovable,  and  when  autumn  comes,  though 
every  leaf  which  once  rustled  falls  to  the  ground 
and  withers,  the  trunk  waits  for  a  new  spring." 

She  had  lived  so  deep  a  life  in  her  world  that 
I  did  not  wish  to  disturb  it.  I  had  but  just  re- 
leased myself  with  difficulty  from  the  magic 
circle  of  these  thoughts,  and  scarcely  knew 
whether  she  had  not  chosen  the  better  part 
which  could  not  be  taken  away  from  her ;  while 
we  have  so  much  trouble  and  care. 

Thus  every  evening  brought  its  new  conversa- 
tion, and  with  each  evening,  some  new  phase  of 
her  fathomless  mind  disclosed  itself.  She  kept 
no  secret  from  me.  Her  talk  was  only  thinking 
and  feeling  aloud,  and  what  she  said  must  have 
dwelt  with  her  many  long  years,  for  she  poured 
out  her  thoughts  as  freely  as  a  child  that  picks 
its  lap  full  of  flowers  and  then  sprinkles  them 
upon  the  grass.  I  could  not  disclose  my  soul  to 
her  as  freely  as  she  did  to  me,  and  this  oppressed 
and  pained  me.  Yet  how  few  can,  with  those 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  89 

continual  deceptions  imposed  upon  us  by  society, 
called  manners,  politeness,  consideration,  pru- 
dence, and  worldly  wisdom,  which  make  our 
entire  life  a  masquerade !  How  few,  even  when 
they  would,  can  regain  the  complete  truth  of 
their  existence  !  Love  itself  dares  not  speak  its 
own  language  and  maintain  its  own  silence,  but 
must  learn  the  set  phrases  of  the  poet  and  ideal- 
ize, sigh  and  flirt  instead  of  freely  greeting, 
beholding  and  surrendering  itself.  I  would  most 
gladly  have  confessed  and  said  to  her:  "You 
know  me  not,"  but  I  found  that  the  words  were 
not  wholly  true.  Before  I  left,  I  gave  her  a  vol- 
ume of  Arnold's  poems,  which  I  had  had  a  short 
time,  and  begged  her  to  read  the  one  called  "  The 
Buried  Life."  It  was  my  confession,  and  then  I 
kneeled  at  her  couch  and  said  "Good  Night." 
"  Good  Night,"  said  she,  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
my  head,  and  again  her  touch  thrilled  through 
every  limb  and  the  dreams  of  childhood  uprose 
in  my  soul.  I  could  not  go,  but  gazed  into  her 
deep  unfathomable  eyes  until  the  peace  of  her  soul 


FIFTH  MEMORY. 


completely  overshadowed  mine.  Then  I  arose 
and  went  home  in  silence  —  and  in  the  night  I 
dreamed  of  the  silver  poplar  around  which  the 
wind  roared  —  but  not  a  leaf  stirred  on  its 
branches. 

THE   BURIED   LIFE. 

Light  flows  our  war  of  mocking  words,  and  yet 
Behold,  with  tears  my  eyes  are  wet  ; 
I  feel  a  nameless  sadness  o'er  me  roll. 

Yes,  yes,  we  know  that  we  can  jest  ; 
We  know,  we  know  that  we  can  smile; 
But  there's  a  something  in  this  breast 
To  which  thy  light  words  bring  no  rest, 
And  thy  gay  smiles  no  anodyne. 

Give  me  thy   hand,  and  hush  awhile, 
And  turn  those  limpid  eyes  on  mine, 
And.  let  me  read  there,  love,  thy  inmost  souL 

Alas,  is  even  love  too  weak 
To  unlock  the  heart,  and  let  it  speak  ? 
Are  even  lovers  powerless  to  reveal 
To  one  another  what  indeed  they  feel? 
I  knew  the  mass  of  men  concealed 
Their  thoughts,  for  fear  that  if  revealed 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  91 

They  would  by  other  men  be  met 

With  blank  indifference,  or  with  blame  reproved ; 

I  knew  they  lived  and  moved, 

Tricked  in  disguises,  alien  to  the  rest 

Of  men  and  alien  to  themselves — and  yet, 

The  same  heart  beats  in  every  human  breast. 

But  we,  my  love — does  a  like  spell  benumb 
Our  hearts  —  our  voices?  —  must  we  too  be  dumb? 

Ah!  well  for  us,  if  even  we, 
Even  for  a  moment,  can  yet  free 
Our  hearts  and  have  our  lips  unchained: 
For  that  which  seals  them  hath  been  deep  ordained. 
Fate  which  foresaw 
How  frivolous  a  baby  man  would  be, 
By  what  distractions  he  would  be  possessed, 
How  he  would  pour  himself  in  every  strife, 
And  well-nigh  change  his  own  identity, 
That  it  might  keep  from  his  capricious  play 
His  genuine  self,  and  force  him  to  obey, 
Even  in  his  own  despite,  his  being's  law, 
Bade  through  the  deep  recesses  of  our  breast 
The  unregarded  River  of  our  Life, 
Pursue  with  indiscernible  flow  its  way; 
And  that  we  should  not  see 
The  buried  stream,  and  seem  to  be 


92  FIFTH  MEMORY. 

Eddying  about  in  blind  uncertainty, 
Though  driving  on  with  it  eternally. 

But  often,  in  the  world's  most  crowded  streets, 
But  often  in  the  din  of  strife, 
There  rises  an  unspeakable  desire 
After  the  knowledge  of  our  buried  life ; 
A  thirst  to  spend  our  fire  and  restless  force 
In  tracking  out  our  true  original  course; 
A  longing  to  inquire 

Into  the  mystery  of  this  heart  that  beats 
So  wild,  so  deep,  in  us ;  to  know 
Whence  our  thoughts  come,  and  where  they  go. 
And  many  a  man  in  his  own  breast  then  delves, 
But  deep  enough,  alas,  none  ever  mines : 
And  we  have  been  on  many  thousand  lines, 
And  we  have  shown  on  each,  talent  and  power, 
But  hardly  have  we,  for  one  little  hour, 
Been  on  our  own  line,  have  we  been  ourselves ; 
Hardly  had  skill  to  utter  one  of  all 
The  nameless  feelings  that  course  through  our  breast, 
But  they  course  on  forever  unexpressed. 
And  long  we  try  in  vain  to  speak  and  act 
Our  hidden  self,  and  what  we  say  and  do 
Is  eloquent,  is  well  —  but  'tis  not  true. 

And  then  we  will  no  more  be  racked 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  93 

With  inward  striving,  and  demand 

Of  all  the  thousand  nothings  of  the  hour 

Their  stupefying  power ; 

Ah !  yes,  and  they  benumb  us  at  qur  call : 

Yet  still,  from  time  to  time,  vague  and  forlorn, 

From  the  soul's  subterranean  depth  upborne, 

As  from  an  infinitely  distant  land, 

Come  airs  and  floating  echoes,  and  convey 

A  melancholy  into  all  our  day. 

Only  —  but  this  is  rare  — 
When  a  beloved  hand  is  laid  in  ours, 
When,  jaded  with  the  rush  and  glare 
Of  the  interminable  hours, 
Our  eyes  can  in  another's  eyes  read  clear, 
When  our  world-deafened  ear 
Is  by  the   tones  of  a  loved  voice  caressed, — 
A  bolt  is  shot  back  somewhere  in  our  breast, 
And  a  lost  pulse  of  feeling  stirs  again  : 
The  eye  sinks  inward,  and  the  heart  lies  plain, 
And  what  we   mean,  we  say,  and  what  we  would,  we 

know; 

A  man  becomes  aware  of  his  life's  flow, 
And  hears  its  winding  murmur,  and  he  sees 
The  meadows  where  it  glides,  the  sun,  the  breeze. 

And  there  arrives  a  lull  in  the  hot  race 


94 


FIFTH  MEMORY. 


Wherein  he  doth  forever  chase 
That  flying  and  elusive  shadow,  Rest; 
An  air  of  coolness  plays  upon  his  face, 
And  an  unwonted  calm  pervades  his  breast. 

And  then  he  thinks  he  knows 
The  Hills  where  his  life  rose, 
And  the  Sea  where  it  goes 


SIXTH    MEMORY. 


SIXTH   MEMORY. 

EARLY  the  next  morning,  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  door,  and  my  old  doctor,  the  Hofrath, 
entered.  He  was  the  friend,  the  body-and-soul- 
guardian  of  our  entire  little  village.  He  had 
seen  two  generations  grow  up.  Children  whom 
he  had  brought  into  the  world  had  in  turn  be- 
come fathers  and  mothers,  and  he  treated  them 
as  his  children.  He  himself  was  unmarried,  and 
even  in  his  old  age  was  strong  and  handsome  to 
look  upon.  I  never  knew  him  otherwise  than  as 
he  stood  before  me  at  that  time ;  his  clear  blue 
eyes  gleaming  under  the  bushy  brows,  his  flow- 
ing white  hair  still  full  of  youthful  strength,  curl- 
ing and  vigorous.  I  can  never  forget,  also,  his 
shoes,  with  their  silver  buckles,  his  white  stock- 
ings, his  brown  coat,  which  always  looked  new, 

and  yet  seemed  to  be  old,  and  his  cane,  which 
7 


98  SIXTH  MEMOR  Y. 

was  the  same  I  had  seen  standing  by  my  bedside 
in  childhood,  when  he  felt  my  pulse  and  pre- 
scribed my  medicines.  I  had  often  been  sick, 
but  it  was  always  faith  in  this  man  which  made 
me  well  again.  I  never  had  the  slightest  doubt 
of  his  ability  to  cure  me,  and  when  my  mother 
said  she  must  send  for  the  Hofrath  that  I  might 
get  well  again,  it  was  as  if  she  had  said  she  must 
send  for  the  tailor  to  mend  my  torn  trousers. 
I  had  only  to  take  the  medicine,  and  I  felt  that 
I  must  be  well  again. 

"  How  are  you,  my  child  ?"  said  he,  as  he 
entered  the  room.  "You  are  not  looking  per- 
fectly well.  You  must  not  study  too  much.  But 
I  have  little  time  to-day  to  talk,  and  only  came 
to  tell  you,  you  must  not  go  to  see  the  Countess 
Marie  again.  I  have  been  with  her  all  night, 
and  it  is  your  fault.  So  be  careful,  if  her  life  is 
dear  to  you,  that  you  do  not  go  again.  She 
must  leave  here  as  soon  as  possible,  and  be 
taken  into  the  country.  It  would  be  best  for 


A   STOXY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  99 

you  also  to  travel  for  a  long  time.  So  good 
morning,  and  be  a  good  child." 

With  these  words,  he  gave  me  his  hand, 
looked  at  me  affectionately  in  the  eyes,  as  if  he 
would  exact  the  promise,  and  then  went  on  his 
way  to  look  after  his  sick  children. 

I  was  so  astonished  that  another  had  pene- 
trated so  deeply  into  the  secrets  of  my  soul,  and 
that  he  knew  what  I  did  not  know  myself,  that 
when  I  recovered  from  it  he  had  already  been 
long  upon  the  street.  An  agitation  began  to 
seize  me,  as  water,  which  has  long  been  over 
the  fire  without  stirring,  suddenly  bubbles  up, 
boils,  heaves  and  rages  until  it  overflows. 

Not  see  her  again!  I  only  live  when  I  am 
with  her.  I  will  be  calm;  I  will  not  speak  a 
word  to  her ;  I  will  only  stand  at  her  window  as 
she  sleeps  and  dreams.  But  not  to  see  her 
again !  Not  to  take  one  farewell  from  her !  She 
knows  not,  they  cannot  know,  that  I  love  her. 
Surely  I  do  not  love  her  —  I  desire  nothing,  I 
hope  for  nothing,  my  heart  never  beats  more 


loo  SIXTH  MEMORY. 

quietly  then  when  I  am  with  her.  But  I  must 
feel  her  presence  —  I  must  breathe  her  spirit  — 
I  must  go  to  her !  She  waits  for  me.  Has  des- 
tiny thrown  us  together  without  design  ?  Ought 
I  not  to  be  her  consolation,  and  ought  she  not 
to  be  my  repose  ?  Life  is  not  a  sport.  It  does 
not  force  two  souls  together  like  the  grains  of 
sand  in  the  desert,  which  the  sirocco  whirls 
together  and  then  asunder.  We  should  hold  fast 
the  souls  which  friendly  fate  leads  to  us,  for 
they  are  destined  for  us,  and  no  power  can  tear 
them  from  us  if  we  have  the  courage  to  live,  to 
struggle,  and  to  die  for  them.  She  would  despise 
me  if  I  deserted  her  love  at  the  first  roll  of  the 
thunder,  as  it  were  in  the  shadow  of  a  tree,  under 
which  I  have  dreamed  so  many  happy  hours. 

Then  I  suddenly  grew  calm,  and  heard  only 
the  words  "her  love;"  they  reverberated  through 
all  the  recesses  of  my  soul  like  an  echo,  and  I 
was  terrified  at  myself.  "  Her  love,"  and  how 
had  I  deserved  it?  She  hardly  knows  me,  and 
even  if  she  could  love  mev  must  I  not  confess 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          IOI 

to  her  I  do  not  deserve  the  love  of  an  angel? 
Every  thought,  every  hope  which  arose  in  my 
soul,  fell  back  like  a  bird  which  essays  to  soar 
into  the  blue  sky  and  does  not  see  the  wires 
which  restrain  it.  And  yet,  why  all  this  bliss- 
fulness,  so  near  and  so  unattainable?  Cannot 
God  work  wonders?  Does  He  not  work  won- 
ders every  morning?  Has  He  not  often  heard 
my  prayer  when  it  importuned  him,  and  would 
not  cease,  until  consolation  and  help  came  to 
the  weary  one  ?  These  are  not  earthly  blessings 
for  which  we  pray.  It  is  only  that  two  souls, 
which  have  found  and  recognized  each  other, 
may  be  allowed  to  finish  their  brief  life-journey, 
arm  in  arm,  and  face  to  face ;  that  I  may  be  a 
support  to  her  in  suffering,  and  that  she  may  be 
a  consolation  and  precious  burden  to  me  until 
we  reach  the  end.  And  if  a  still  later  spring 
were  promised  to  her  life,  if  her  burdens  were 
taken  from  her — Oh,  what  blissful  scenes  crowded 
upon  my  vision !  The  castle  of  her  deceased 
mother,  in  the  Tyrol,  belonged  to  her.  There, 


102  SIXTH  MEMORY. 

on  the  green  mountains,  in  the  fresh  mountain 
air,  among  a  sturdy  and  uncorrupted  people,  far 
away  from  the  hurly-burly  of  the  world,  its  cares 
and  its  struggles,  its  opinion  and  its  censure, 
how  blissfully  we  could  await  the  close  of  life, 
and  silently  fade  away  like  the  evening-red ! 
Then  I  pictured  the  dark  lake,  with  the  dancing 
shimmer  of  waves,  and  the  clear  shadows  of  dis- 
tant glaciers  reflected  in  it ;  I  heard  the  lowing 
of  cattle  and  the  songs  of  the  herdsmen;  I  saw 
the  hunters  with  their  rifles  crossing  the  mount- 
ains, and  the  old  and  young  gathering  together 
at  twilight  in  the  village ;  and,  to  crown  all,  I  saw 
her  passing  along  like  an  angel  of  peace  in  bene- 
diction, and  I  was  her  guide  and  friend.  "  Poor 
fool!"  I  cried  out,  "poor  fool!  Is  thy  heart 
always  to  be  so  wild  and  so  weak  ?  Be  a  man. 
Think  who  thou  art,  and  how  far  thou  art  from 
her.  She  is  a  friend.  She  gladly  reflects  her- 
self in  another's  soul,  but  her  childlike  trust  and 
candor  at  best  only  show  that  no  deeper  feeling 
lives  in  her  breast  for  thee.  Hast  thou  not,  on 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          103 

many  a  clear  summer's  night,  wandering  alone 
through  the  beech  groves,  seen  how  the  moon 
sheds  its  light  upon  all  the  branches  and  leaves, 
how  it  brightens  the  dark,  dull  water  of  the  pool 
and  reflects  itself  clearly  in  the  smallest  drops  ? 
In  like  manner  she  shines  upon  this  dark  life, 
and  thou  may'st  feel  her  gentle  radiance  re- 
flected in  thy  heart  —  but  hope  not  for  a  warmer 
glow!" 

Suddenly  an  image  approached  me  as  it  were 
from  life ;  she  stood  before  me,  not  like  a  mem- 
ory but  as  a  vision,  and  I  realized  for  the  first 
time  how  beautiful  she  was.  It  was  not  that 
beauty  of  form  and  face  which  dazzles  us  at  the 
first  sight  of  a  lovely  maiden,  and  then  fades 
away  as  suddenly  as  a  blossom  in  spring.  It  was 
much  more  the  harmony  of  her  whole  being,  the 
reality  of  every  emotion,  the  spirituality  of  ex- 
pression, the  perfect  union  of  body  and  soul 
which  blesses  him  so  who  looks  upon  it.  The 
beauty  which  nature  lavishes  so  prodigally  does 
not  bring  any  satisfaction,  if  the  person  is  not 


104  SIXTH  MEMORY. 

adapted  to  it  and  as  it  were  deserves  and  over- 
comes it.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  offensive,  as 
when  we  look  upon  an  actress  striding  along  the 
stage  in  queenly  costume,  and  notice  at  every 
step  how  poorly  the  attire  fits  her,  how  little  it 
becomes  her.  True  beauty  is  sweetness,  and 
sweetness  is  the  spiritualizing  of  the  gross,  the 
corporeal  and  the  earthly.  It  is  the  spiritual 
presence  which  transforms  ugliness  into  beauty. 
The  more  I  looked  upon  the  vision  which  stood 
before  me,  the  more  I  perceived,  above  all  else, 
the  majestic  beauty  of  her  person  and  the  soul- 
ful depths  of  her  whole  being.  Oh,  what  happi- 
ness was  near  me !  And  was  this  all  —  to  be 
shown  the  summit  of  earthly  bliss  and  then  be 
thrust  out  into  the  flat,  sandy  wastes  of  existence  ? 
Oh,  that  I  had  never  known  what  treasures  the 
earth  conceals!  Once  to  love,  and  then  to  be 
forever  alone !  Once  to  believe,  and  then  forever 
to  doubt !  Once  to  see  the  light,  and  then  for- 
ever to  be  blinded!  In  comparison  with  this 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          105 

rack,  all  the  torture-chambers  of  man  are  insig- 
nificant. 

Thus  rushed  the  wild  chase  of  my  thoughts 
farther  and  farther  away  until  at  last  all  was 
silent.  The  confused  sensations  gradually  col- 
lected and  settled.  This  repose  and  exhaustion 
they  call  meditation,  but  it  is  rather  an  inspection 
—  one  allows  time  for  the  mixture  of  thoughts 
to  crystallize  themselves  according  to  eternal  laws, 
and  regards  the  process  like  an  observing  chem- 
ist ;  and  the  elements  having  assumed  a  form,  we 
often  wonder  that  they,  as  well  as  ourselves,  are 
so  entirely  different  from  what  we  expected. 

When  I  awoke  from  my  abstraction,  my  first 
words  were,  "  I  must  away."  I  immediately  sat 
down  and  wrote  the  Hofrath  that  I  should  travel 
for  fourteen  days  and  submit  entirely  to  him. 
I  easily  made  an  excuse  to  my  parents,  and  at 
night  I  was  on  my  v/ay  to  the  Tyrol. 


SEVENTH    MEMORY, 


SEVENTH   MEMORY. 


WANDERING,  arm  in  arm  with  a  friend, 
through  the  valleys  and  over  the  mount- 
ains of  the  Tyrol,  one  sips  life's  fresh  air  and 
enjoyment ;  but  to  travel  the  same  road  solitary 
and  alone  with  your  thoughts  is  time  and  trouble 
lost.  Of  what  interest  to  me  are  the  green 
mountains,  the  dark  ravines,  the  blue  lake,  and 
the  mighty  cataracts  ?  Instead  of  contemplating 
them  they  look  at  me  and  wonder  among  them- 
selves at  this  solitary  being.  It  smote  me  to  the 
heart  that  I  had  found  no  one  in  all  the  world 
who  loved  me  more  than  all  others.  With  such 
thoughts  I  awoke  every  morning,  and  they 
haunted  me  all  the  day  like  a  song  which  one 
cannot  drive  away.  When  I  entered  the  inn  at 
night  and  sat  down  wearied,  and  the  people  in 
the  room  watched  me,  and  wondered  at  the 


no  SEVENTH  MEMORY. 

solitary  wanderer,  it  often  urged  me  out  into  the 
night  again,  where  no  one  could  see  I  was  alone. 
At  a  late  hour  I  would  steal  back,  go  quietly  up 
to  my  room  and  throw  myself  upon  my  hot  bed, 
and  the  song  of  Schubert's  would  ring  through 
my  soul  until  I  went  to  sleep :  "  Where  thou  art 
not,  is  happiness."  At  last  the  sight  of  men, 
whom  I  continually  met  laughing,  rejoicing  and 
exulting  in  this  glorious  nature,  became  so  intol- 
erable that  I  slept  by  day,  and  pursued  my  jour- 
ney from  place  to  place  in  the  clear  moonlight 
nights.  There  was  at  least  one  emotion  which 
dispelled  and  dissipated  my  thoughts:  it  was 
fear.  Let  any  one  attempt  to  scale  mountains 
alone  all  night  long  in  ignorance  of  the  way  — 
where  the  eye,  unnaturally  strained,  beholds  dis- 
tant shapes  it  cannot  solve  —  where  the  ear,  with 
hiorbid  acuteness,  hears  sounds  without  knowing 
whence  they  come  —  where  the  foot  suddenly 
stumbles,  it  may  be  over  a  root  which  forces  its 
way  through  the  rocks,  or  on  a  slippery  path 
which  the  waterfall  has  drenched  with  its  spray 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  Ill 

—  and  besides  all  this,  a  disconsolate  waste  in 
the  heart,  no  memory  to  cheer  us,  no  hope  to 
which  we  may  cling  —  let  any  one  attempt  this, 
and  he  will  feel  the  cold  chill  of  night  both  out- 
wardly and  inwardly.  The  first  fear  of  the 
human  heart  arises  from  God  forsaking  us;  but 
life  dissipates  it,  and  mankind,  created  after  the 
image  of  God,  consoles  us  in  our  solitariness. 
When  even  this  consolation  and  love,  however, 
forsake  us,  then  we  feel  what  it  means  to  be 
deserted  by  God  and  man,  and  nature  with  her 
silent  face  terrifies  rather  than  consoles  us. 
Even  when  we  firmly  plant  our  feet  upon  the- 
solid  rocks,  they  seem  to  tremble  like  the  mists 
of  the  sea  from  which  they  once  slowly  emerged. 
When  the  eye  longs  for  the  light,  and  the  moon 
rises  behind  the  firs,  reflecting  their  tapering 
tops  against  the  bright  rock  opposite,  it  appears 
to  us  like  the  dead  hand  of  a  clock  which  was 
once  wound  up,  and  will  some  day  cease  to 
strike.  There  is  no  retreat  for  the  soul,  which 
feels  itself  alone  and  forsaken  even  among  the 


112  SEVENTH  MEMORY. 

stars,  or  in  the  heavenly  world  itself.  One 
thought  brings  us  a  little  consolation :  the  repose, 
the  regularity,  the  immensity,  and  the  unavoida- 
bleness  of  nature.  Here,  where  the  waterfall 
has  clothed  the  gray  rocks  on  either  side  with 
green  moss,  the  eye  suddenly  recognizes  a  blue 
forget-me-not  in  the  cool  shade.  It  is  one  of 
millions  of  sisters  now  blossoming  along  all  the 
rivulets  and  in  all  the  meadows  of  earth,  and 
which  have  blossomed  ever  since  the  first  morn- 
ing of  creation  shed  its  entire  inexhaustible 
wealth  over  the  world.  Every  vein  in  its  leaves, 
every  stamen  in  its  cup,  every  fibre  of  its  roots, 
is  numbered,  and  no  power  on  earth  can  make 
the  number  more  or  less.  Still  more,  when 
we  strain  our  weak  eyes  and,  with  superhuman 
power,  cast  a  more  searching  glance  into  the 
secrets  of  nature,  when  the  microscope  discloses 
to  us  the  silent  laboratory  of  the  seed,  the  bud 
and  the  blossom,  do  we  recognize  the  infinite, 
ever-recurring  form  in  the  most  minute  tissues 
and  cells,  and  the  eternal  unchangeableness  of 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          113 

Nature's  plans  in  the  most  delicate  fibre.  Could 
we  pierce  still  deeper,  the  same  form-world  would 
reveal  itself,  and  the  vision  would  lose  itself  as 
in  a  hall  hung  with  mirrors.  Such  an  infinity  as 
this  lies  hidden  in  this  little  flower.  If  we  look 
up  to  the  sky,  we  see  again  the  same  system  — 
the  moon  revolving  around  the  planets,  the 
planets  around  suns,  and  the  suns  around  new 
suns,  while  to  the  straining  eye  the  distant  star- 
nebulae  themselves  seem  to  be  a  new  and  beau- 
tiful world.  Reflect  then  how  these  majestic 
constellations  periodically  revolve,  that  the  sea< 
sons  may  change,  that  the  seed  of  this  forget- 
me-not  may  shed  itself  again  and  again,  the 
cells  open,  the  leaves  shoot  out,  and  the  blos- 
soms decorate  the  carpet  of  the  meadow;  and 
look  upon  the  lady-bug  which  rocks  itself  in  the 
blue  cup  of  the  flower,  and  whose  awakening 
into  life,  whose  consciousness  of  existence,  whose 
living  breath,  are  a  thousand-fold  more  wonder- 
ful than  the  tissue  of  the  flower,  or  the  dead 
mechanism  of  the  heavenly  bodies.  Consider 


114  SEVENTH  MEMORY. 

that  thou  also  belongest  to  this  infinite  warp 
and  woof,  and  that  thou  art  permitted  to  com- 
fort thyself  with  the  infinite  creatures  which 
revolve  and  live  and  disappear  with  thee.  But 
if  this  All,  with  its  smallest  and  its  greatest,  with 
its  wisdom  and  its  power,  with  the  wonders  of  its 
existence,  and  the  existence  of  its  wonders,  is  the 
work  of  a  Being  in  whose  presence  thy  soul  does 
not  shrink  back,  before  whom  thou  fallest  pros- 
trate in  a  feeling  of  weakness  and  nothingness, 
and  to  whom  thou  risest  again  in  the  feeling  of 
His  love  and  mercy  —  if  thou  really  feelest  that 
something  dwells  in  thee  more  endless  and  eter- 
nal than  the  cells  of  the  flowers,  the  spheres  of 
the  planets,  and  the  life  of  the  insect  —  if  thou 
recognizest  in  thyself  as  in  a  shadow  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  Eternal  which  illuminates  thee  —  if 
thou  feelest  in  thyself,  and  under  and  above 
thyself,  the  omnipresence  of  the  Real,  in  which 
thy  seeming  becomes  being,  thy  trouble,  rest; 
thy  solitude,  universality  —  then  thou  knowest 
the  One  to  Whom  thou  criest  in  the  dark  night 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          115 

of  life :  "  Creator  and  Father,  Thy  will  be  done 
in  Heaven  as  upon  earth,  and  as  on  earth  so 
also  in  me."  Then  it  grows  bright  in  and  about 
thee.  The  daybreak  disappears  with  its  cold 
mists,  and  a  new  warmth  streams  through  shiver- 
ing nature.  Thou  hast  found  a  hand  which 
never  again  leaves  thee,  which  holds  thee  when 
the  mountains  tremble  and  moons  are  extin- 
guished. Wherever  thou  may'st  be,  thou  art  with 
Him,  and  He  with  thee.  He  is  the  eternally 
near,  and  His  is  the  world  with  its  flowers  and 
thorns,  His  is  man  with  his  joys  and  sorrows. 
"  The  least  important  thing  does  not  happen 
except  as  God  wills  it." 

With  such  thoughts  I  went  on  my  way.  At 
one  time,  all  was  well  with  me ;  at  another, 
troubled ;  for  even  when  we  have  found  rest  and 
peace  in  the  lowest  depths  of  the  soul,  it  is  still 
hard  to  remain  undisturbed  in  this  holy  solitude. 
Yes,  many  forget  it  after  they  find  it  and  scarcely 
know  the  way  which  leads  back  to  it. 

Weeks   had    flown,   and   not   a   syllable   had 


Il6  SEVENTH  MEMORY. 

reached  me  from  her.  "  Perhaps  she  is  dead 
and  lies  in  quiet  rest,"  was  another  song  forever 
on  my  tongue,  and  always  returning  as  often  as 
I  drove  it  from  me.  It  was  not  impossible,  for 
the  Hofrath  had  told  me  she  suffered  with  heart 
troubles,  and  that  he  expected  to  find  her  no 
more  among  the  living  every  morning  he  visited 
her.  Could  I  ever  forgive  myself  if  she  had  left 
this  world  and  I  had  not  taken  farewell  of  her, 
nor  told  her  at  the  last  moment  how  I  loved  her? 
Must  I  not  follow  until  I  found  her  again  in 
another  life,  and  heard  from  her  that  she  loved 
me  and  that  I  was  forgiven  ?  How  mankind 
defers  from  day  to  day  the  best  it  can  do,  and 
the  most  beautiful  things  it  can  enjoy,  without 
thinking  that  every  day  may  be  the  last  one,  and 
that  lost  time  is  lost  eternity!  Then  all  the 
words  of  the  Hofrath,  the  last  time  I  saw  him, 
recurred  to  me,  and  I  felt  that  I  had  only  re- 
solved to  make  my  sudden  journey  to  show  my 
strength  to  him,  and  that  it  would  have  been  a 
still  more  difficult  task  to  have  confessed  my 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          117 

weakness  and  remained.  It  was  clear  to  me  that 
it  was  my  simple  duty  to  return  to  her  imme- 
diately and  to  bear  everything  which  Heaven 
ordained.  But  as  soon  as  I  had  laid  the  plan 
for  my  return  journey,  I  suddenly  remembered 
the  words  of  the  Hofrath :  "  As  soon  as  possible 
she  must  go  away  and  be  taken  into  the  coun- 
try." She  had  herself  told  me  that  she  spent 
the  most  of  her  time,  in  summer,  at  her  castle. 
Perhaps  she  was  there,  in  my  immediate  vicinity ; 
in  one  day  I  could  be  with  her.  Thinking  was 
doing;  at  daybreak  I  was  off,  and  at  evening  I 
stood  at  the  gate  of  the  castle. 

The  night  was  clear  and  bright.  The  mount- 
ain peaks  glistened  in  the  full  gold  of  the  sun- 
set and  the  lower  ridges  were  bathed  in  a  rosy 
blue.  A  gray  mist  rose  from  the  valleys  which 
suddenly  glistened  when  it  swept  up  into  the 
higher  regions,  and  then  like  a  cloud-sea  rolled 
heavenwards.  The  whole  color-play  reflected 
itself  in  the  gently  agitated  breast  of  the  dark 
lake  from  whose  shores  the  mountains  seemed  to 


Il8  SEVENTH  MEMORY. 

rise  and  fall,  so  that  only  the  tops  of  the  trees 
and  the  peaks  of  the  church  steeples  and  the 
rising  smoke  from  the  houses  defined  the  limits 
which  separated  the  reality  of  the  world  from 
its  reflection.  My  glance,  however,  rested  upon 
only  one  spot  —  the  old  castle  —  where  a  present- 
iment told  me  I  should  find  her  again.  No  light 
could  be  seen  in  the  windows,  no  footstep  broke 
the  silence  of  the  night.  Had  my  presentiment 
deceived  me  ?  I  passed  slowly  through  the  outer 
gateway  and  up  the  steps  until  I  stood  at  the 
fore-court  of  the  castle.  Here  I  saw  a  sentinel 
pacing  back  and  forwards,  and  I  hastened  to  the 
soldier  to  inquire  who  was  in  the  castle.  "  The 
Countess  and  her  attendants  are  here,"  was  the 
brief  reply,  and  in  an  instant  I  stood  at  the  main 
portal  and  had  even  pulled  the  bell.  Then,  for 
the  first  time,  my  action  occurred  to  me.  No 
one  knew  me.  I  neither  could  nor  dare  say  who 
I  was.  I  had  wandered  for  weeks  about  the 
mountains,  and  looked  like  a  beggar.  What 
should  I  say  ?  For  whom  should  I  ask  ?  There 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  119 

was  little  time  for  consideration,  however,  for  the 
door  opened  and  a  servant  in  princely  livery 
stood  before  me,  and  regarded  me  with  amaze- 
ment. 

I  asked  if  the  English  lady,  who  I  knew 
would  never  forsake  the  Countess,  was  in  the 
castle,  and  when  the  servant  replied  in  the  affirm- 
ative, I  begged  for  paper  and  ink  and  wrote  her 
I  was  present  to  inquire  after  the  health  of-  the 
Countess. 

The  servant  called  an  attendant,  who  took  the 
letter  away.  I  heard  every  step  in  the  long  halls, 
and  every  moment  I  waited,  my  position  became 
more  unendurable.  The  old  family  portraits  of 
the  princely  house  hung  upon  the  walls  —  knights 
in  full  armor,  ladies  in  antique  costume,  and  in 
the  center  a  lady  in  the  white  robes  of  a  nun 
with  a  red  cross  upon  her  breast.  At  any  other 
time  I  might  have  looked  upon  these  pictures 
and  never  thought  that  a  human  heart  once  beat 
in  their  breasts.  But  now  it  seemed  to  me  I 
could  suddenly  read  whole  volumes  in  their  feat- 


120  SEVENTH  MEMORY. 

ures,  and  that  all  of  them  said  to  me :  "  We  also 
have  once  lived  and  suffered."  Under  these  iron 
armors  secrets  were  once  hidden  as  even  now  in 
my  own  breast.  These  white  robes  and  the  red 
cross  are  real  proofs  that  a  battle  was  fought  here 
like  that  now  raging  in  my  own  heart.  Then  I 
fancied  all  of  them  regarded  me  with  pity,  and 
a  loftier  haughtiness  rested  on  their  features  as 
if  they  would  say,  Thou  dost  not  belong  to  us. 
I  was  growing  uneasy  every  moment,  when  sud- 
denly a  light  step  dissipated  my  dream.  The 
English  lady  came  down  the  stairs  and  asked  me 
to  step  into  an  apartment.  I  looked  at  her 
closely  to  see  if  she  suspected  my  real  emotions ; 
but  her  face  was  perfectly  calm,  and  without 
manifesting  the  slightest  expression  of  curiosity 
or  wonder,  she  said  in  measured  tones,  the 
Countess  was  much  better  to-day  and  would  see 
me  in  half  an  hour. 

When  I  heard  these  words,  I  felt  like  the 
good  swimmer  who  has  ventured  far  out  into 
the  sea,  and  first  thinks  of  returning  when  his 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  12 1 

arms  have  begun  to  grow  weary.  He  cleaves 
the  waves  with  haste,  scarcely  venturing  to 
cast  a  glance  at  the  distant  shore,  feeling 
with  every  stroke  that  his  strength  is  failing 
and  that  he  is  making  no  headway,  until  at 
last,  purposeless  and  cramped,  he  scarcely  has 
any  realization  of  his  position;  then  suddenly 
his  foot  touches  the  firm  bottom,  and  his  arm 
hugs  the  first  rock  on  the  shore.  A  fresh  re- 
ality confronted  me,  and  my  sufferings  were  a 
dream.  There  are  but  few  such  moments  in 
the  life  of  man,  and  thousands  have  never 
known  their  rapture.  The  mother  whose  child 
rests  in  her  arms  for  the  first  time,  the  father 
whose  only  son  returns  from  war  covered  with 
glory,  the  poet  in  whom  his  countrymen  exult, 
the  youth  whose  warm  grasp  of  the  hand  is 
returned  by  the  beloved  being  with  a  still 
warmer  pressure  —  they  know  what  it  means 
when  a  dream  becomes  a  reality. 

At  the   expiration  of   the   half  hour,  a  ser- 
vant  came  and   conducted   me  through  a  long 


122  SEVENTH  MEMORY. 

suite  of  rooms,  opened  a  door,  and  in  the  fad- 
ing light  of  the  evening  I  saw  a  white  figure, 
and  above  her  a  high  window,  which  looked 
out  upon  the  lake  and  the  shimmering  mount- 
ains. 

"How  singularly  people  meet!"  she  cried  out 
in  a  clear  voice,  and  every  word  was  like  a  cool 
rain-drop  on  a  hot  summer's  day. 

"  How  singularly  people  meet,  and  how  sin- 
gularly they  lose  each  other,"  said  I ;  and  there- 
upon I  seized  her  hand,  and  realized  that  we 
were  together  again. 

"But  people  are  to  blame  if  they  lose  each 
other,"  she  continued;  and  her  voice,  which 
seemed  always  to  accompany  her  words,  like 
music,  involuntarily  modulated  into  a  tenderer 
key. 

"Yes,  that  is  true,"  I  replied;  "but  first  tell 
me,  are  you  well,  and  can  I  talk  with  you  ?" 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  she,  smiling,  "  you 
know  I  am  always  sick,  and  if  I  say  that  I  feel 
well,  I  do  so  for  the  sake  of  my  old  Hofrath ; 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  123 

for  he  is  firmly  convinced  that  my  entire  life 
since  my  first  year  is  due  to  him  and  his  skill. 
Before  I  left  the  Court-residence  I  caused  him 
much  anxiety,  for  one  evening  my  heart  sud- 
denly ceased  beating,  and  I  experienced  such 
distress  that  I  thought  it  would  never  beat 
again.  But  that  is  past,  and  why  should  we 
recall  it  ?  Only  one  thing  troubles  me.  I  have 
hitherto  believed  I  should  some  time  close  my 
eyes  in  perfect  repose,  but  now  I  feel  that  my 
sufferings  will  disturb  and  embitter  my  depart- 
ure from  life."  Then  she  placed  her  hand 
upon  her  heart,  and  said :  "  But  tell  me,  where 
have  you  been,  and  why  have  I  not  heard  from 
you  all  this  time  ?  The  old  Hofrath  has  given 
me  so  many  reasons  for  your  sudden  departure, 
that  I  was  finally  compelled  to  tell  him  I  did 
not  believe  him  —  and  at  last  he  gave  me  the 
most  incredible  of  all  reasons,  and  counselled  — 
what  do  you  suppose?" 

"He  might  seem  untruthful,"  I  interrupted, 
so  that  she  should  net  explain  the  reason,  "  and 


124  SEVENTH  MEMORY. 

yet,  perhaps  he  was  only  too  truthful.  But 
this  also  is  past,  and  why  should  we  recall  it?" 
"No,  no,  my  friend,"  said  she,  "why  call  it 
past  ?  I  told  the  Hofrath,  when  he  gave  me  the 
last  reason  for  your  sudden  departure,  that  I 
understood  neither  him  nor  you.  I  am  a  poor 
sick,  forsaken  being,  and  my  earthly  existence 
is  only  a  slow  death.  Now  if  Heaven  sends 
me  a  few  souls  who  understand  me,  or  love  me, 
as  the  Hofrath  calls  it,  why  then  should  it  dis- 
turb their  joy  or  mine?  I  had  been  reading 
my  favorite  poet,  the  old  Wordsworth,  when 
the  Hofrath  made  his  acknowledgment,  and 
I  said :  '  My  dear  Hofrath,  we  have  so  many 
thoughts  and  so  few  words  that  we  must  ex- 
press many  thoughts  in  every  word.  Now  if 
one  who  does  not  know  us  understood  that  our 
young  friend  loved  me,  or  I  him,  in  such  man- 
ner as  we  suppose  Romeo  loved  Juliet  and 
Juliet  Romeo,  you  would  be  entirely  right  in 
saying  it  should  not  be  so.  But  is  it  not  true 
that  you  love  me  also,  my  old  Hofrath,  and 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  125 

that  I  love  you,  and  have  loved  you  for  many 
years?  And  has  it  not  sometimes  occurred  to 
you  that  I  have  neither  been  past  remedy  nor 
unhappy  on  that  account?  Yes,  my  dear  Ho- 
frath,  I  will  tell  you  still  more  —  I  believe  you 
have  an  unfortunate  love  for  me,  and  are  jeal- 
ous of  our  young  friend.  Do  you  not  come 
every  morning  and  inquire  how  I  am,  even 
when  you  know  I  am  very  well  ?  Do  you  not 
bring  me  the  finest  flowers  from  your  garden  ? 
Did  you  not  oblige  me  to  send  you  my  portrait, 
and  —  perhaps  I  ought  not  to  disclose  it  —  did 
you  not  come  to  my  room  last  Sunday  and  think 
I  was  asleep  ?  I  was  really  sleeping  —  at  least 
I  could  not  stir  myself.  I  saw  you  sitting  at 
my  bedside  for  a  long  time,  your  eyes  stead- 
fastly fixed  upon  me,  and  I  felt  your  glances 
playing  upon  my  face  like  sunbeams.  At  last 
your  eyes  grew  weary,  and  I  perceived  the 
great  tears  falling  from  them.  You  held  your 
face  in  your  hands,  and  loudly  sobbed :  Marie, 
Marie  !  Ah,  my  dear  Hofrath,  our  young  friend 


126  SEVENTH  MEMORY. 

has  never  done  that,  and  yet  you  have  sent  him 
away.'  As  I  thus  talked  with  him,  half  in  jest 
and  half  in  earnest,  as  I  always  speak,  I  per- 
ceived that  I  had  hurt  the  old  man's  feelings. 
He  became  perfectly  silent,  and  blushed  like 
a  child.  Then  I  took  the  volume  of  Words- 
worth's poems  which  I  had  been  reading,  and 
said :  '  Here  is  another  old  man  whom  I  love, 
and  love  with  my  whole  heart,  who  understands 
me,  and  whom  I  understand,  and  yet  I  have 
never  seen  him,  and  shall  never  see  him  on 
earth,  since  it  is  so  to  be.  Now  I  will  read 
you  one  of  his  poems,  that  you  may  see  how 
one  can  love,  and  that  love  is  a  silent  benedic- 
tion which  the  lover  lays  upon  the  head  of  the 
beloved,  and  then  goes  on  his  way  in  raptur- 
ous sorrow.'  Then  I  read  to  him  Wordsworth's 
'  Highland  Girl ;'  and  now,  my  friend,  place  the 
lamp  nearer,  and  read  the  poem  to  me,  for  it 
refreshes  me  every  time  I  hear  it.  A  spirit 
breathes  through  it  like  the  silent,  everlasting 
evening-red,  which  stretches  its  arms  in  love 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          12? 

and  blessing  over  the  pure  breast  of  the  snow- 
covered  mountains." 

As  her  words  thus  gradually  and  peacefully 
filled  my  soul,  it  at  last  grew  still  and  solemn  in 
my  breast  again;  the  storm  was  over,  and  her 
image  floated  like  the  silvery  moonlight  upon 
the  gently  rippling  waves  of  my  love  —  this 
world-sea  which  rolls  through  the  hearts  of  all 
men,  and  which  each  calls  his  own  while  it  is 
an  all-animating  pulse-beat  of  the  whole  human 
race.  I  would  most  gladly  have  kept  silent 
like  Nature  as  it  lay  before  our  view  without, 
and  ever  grew  stiller  and  darker:  But  she 
gave  me  the  book,  and  I  read: 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower 
Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower! 
Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 
Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head : 
And  these  gray  rocks,  that  household  lawn, 
Those  trees,  a  veil  just  half  withdrawn, 
This  fall  of  water  that  doth  make 
A  murmur  near  the  silent  lake, 


128  SEVENTH  MEMORY. 

This  little  bay;    a  quiet  road 
That  holds  in  shelter  thy  abode  — 
In  truth,  together  do  ye  seem 
Like  something  fashioned  in  a  dream ; 
Such  forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 
When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep ! 
But,  O  fair  creature!  in  the  light 
Of  common  day,  so  heavenly  bright, 
I  bless  thee,  vision  as  thou  art, 
I  bless  thee  with  a  human  heart ; 
God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years! 
Thee  neither  know  I,  nor  thy  peers; 
And  yet  my  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 
With  earnest  feeling  I  shall  pray 
For  thee  when  I  am  far  away: 
For  never  saw  I  mien  or  face. 
In  which  more  plainly  I  could  trace 
Benignity  and  home-bred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 
Here  scattered,  like  a  random  seed, 
Remote  from  men,  thou  dost  not  need 
The  embarrassed  look  of  shy  distress, 
And  maidenly  shamefacedness : 
Thou  wear'st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a  mountaineer: 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          129 

A  face  with  gladness  overspread ! 
Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred! 
And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays ; 
With  no  restraint,  but  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach 
Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech: 
A  bondage  sweetly  brooked,  a  strife 
That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life! 
So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind, 
Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving  kind  — 
Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 

What  hand  but  would  a  garland  culi 
For  thee  who  art  so  beautiful? 
O  happy  pleasure!  here  to  dwell 
Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell; 
Adopt  your  homely  ways  and  dress, 
A  shepherd,  thou  a  shepherdess  : 
But  I  could  frame  a  wish  for  thee 
More  like  a  grave  reality: 
Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a  wave 
Of  the  wild  sea ;  and  I  would  have 
Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I  could, 
Though  but  of  common  neighborhood. 
9 


130  SEVENTH  MEMORY. 

What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see! 
Thy  elder  brother  I  would  be, 
Thy  father  —  anything  to  thee! 

Now  thanks  to  heaven!  that  of  its  grace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place. 
Joy  have  I  had ;  and  going  hence 
I  bear  away  my  recompense. 
In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 
Our  memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes : 
Then  why  should  I  be  loth  to  stir? 
I  feel  this  place  was  made  for  her; 
To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past, 
Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 
Nor  am  I  loth,  though  pleased  at  heart, 
Sweet  Highland  Girl,  from  thee  to  part ; 
For  I,  methinks,  till  I  grow  old, 
As  fair  before  me  shall  behold, 
As  I  do  now,  the  cabin  small, 
The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall, 
And  thee,  the  spirit  of  them  all! 

I  had  finished,  and  the  poem  had  been  to  me 
like  a  draught  of  the  fresh  spring-water  which  I 
had  sipped  so  often  of  late  as  it  dropped  from 
the  cup  of  some  large  green  leaf. 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          131 

Then  I  heard  her  gentle  voice,  like  the  first 
tone  of  the  organ,  which  wakens  us  from  our 
dreamy  devotion,  and  she  said : 

"  Thus  I  desire  you  to  love  me,  and  thus  the 
old  Hofrath  loves  me,  and  thus  in  one  way  or 
another  we  should  all  love  and  believe  in  each 
other.  But  the  world,  although  I  scarcely  know 
it,  does  not  seem  to  understand  this  love  and 
faith,  and,  on  this  earth,  where  we  could  have 
lived  so  happily,  men  have  made  existence  very 
wretched. 

"It  must  have  been  otherwise  of  old,  else 
how  could  Homer  have  created  the  lovely, 
wholesome,  tender  picture  of  Nausikaa?  Nau- 
sikaa  loves  Ulysses  at  the  first  glance.  She  says 
at  once  to  her  female  friends :  '  Oh,  that  I  could 
call  such  a  man  my  spouse,  and  that  it  were  his 
destiny  to  remain  here.'  She  was  even  too 
modest  to  appear  in  public  at  the  same  time 
with  him,  and  she  says,  in  his  presence,  that  if 
she  should  bring  such  a  handsome  and  majestic 
stranger  home,  the  people  would  say,  she  may 


132  SEVENTH  MEMORY. 

have  taken  him  for  a  husband.  How  simple 
and  natural  all  this  is!  But  when  she  heard 
that  he  was  going  home  to  his  wife  and  children, 
no  murmur  escaped  her.  She  disappears  from 
our  sight,  and  we  feel  that  she  carried  the  pic- 
ture of  the  handsome  and  majestic  stranger  a 
long  time  afterward  in  her  breast,  with  silent  and 
joyful  admiration.  Why  do  not  our  poets  know 
this  love  —  this  joyful  acknowledgment,  this  calm 
abnegation?  A  later  poet  would  have  made  a 
womanish  Werter  out  of  Nausikaa,  for  the  reason 
that  love  with  us  is  nothing  more  than  the  pre- 
lude to  the  comedy,  or  the  tragedy,  of  marriage. 
Is  it  true  there  is  no  longer  any  other  love  ? 
Has  the  fountain  of  this  pure  happiness  wholly 
dried  up  ?  Are  men  only  acquainted  with  the 
intoxicating  draught,  and  no  longer  with  the 
invigorating  well-spring  of  love  ?" 

At  these  words  the  English  poet  occurred  to 
me,  who  also  thus  complains: 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  133 

From  heaven  if  this  belief  be  sent, 

If  such  be  nature's  holy  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 

What  man  has  made  of  man. 

"Yet,  how  happy  the  poets  are,"  said  she. 
"  Their  words  call  the  deepest  feelings  into  exist- 
ence in  thousands  of  mute  souls,  and  how  often 
their  songs  have  become  a  confession  of  the 
sweetest  secrets!  Their  heart  beats  in  the 
breasts  of  the  poor  and  the  rich.  The  happy 
sing  with  them,  and  the  sad  weep  with  them. 
But  I  cannot  feel  any  poet  so  completely  my 
own  as  Wordsworth.  I  know  many  of  my  friends 
do  not  like  him.  They  say  he  is  not  a  poet. 
But  that  is  exactly  why  I  like  him;  he  avoids  all 
the  hackneyed  poetical  catch-words,  all  exagger- 
ation, and  everything  comprehended  in  Pegasus- 
flights.  He  is  true  —  and  does  not  everything 
lie  in  this  one  word  ?  He  opens  our  eyes  to  the 
beauty  which  lies  under  our  feet  like  the  daisy 
in  the  meadow.  He  calls  everything  by  its  true 
name.  He  never  intends  to  startle,  deceive,  or 


134  SEVENTH  MEMORY. 

dazzle  any  one.  He  seeks  no  admiration  for 
himself.  He  only  shows  mankind  how  beautiful 
everything  is  which  man's  hand  has  not  yet 
spoiled  or  broken.  Is  not  a  dew-drop  on  a 
blade  of  grass  more  beautiful  than  a  pearl  set  in 
gold  ?  Is  not  a  living  spring,  which  gushes  up 
before  us,  we  know  not  whence,  more  beautiful 
than  all  the  fountains  of  Versailles  ?  Is  not  his 
Highland  Girl  a  lovelier  and  truer  expression  of 
real  beauty  than  Goethe's  Helena,  or  Byron's 
Haidee  ?  And  then  the  plainness  of  his  lan- 
guage, and  the  purity  of  his  thoughts !  Is  it  not 
a  pity  that  we  have  never  had  such  a  poet? 
Schiller  could  have  been  our  Wordsworth,  had 
he  had  more  faith  in  himself  than  in  the  old 
Greeks  and  Romans.  Our  Ruckert  would  come 
the  nearest  to  him,  had  he  not  also  sought  con- 
solation and  home  under  Eastern  roses,  away 
from  his  poor  Fatherland.  Few  poets  have  the 
courage  to  be  just  what  they  are.  Wordsworth 
had  it;  and  as  we  gladly  listen  to  great  men, 
even  in  those  moments  when  they  are  not 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          135 

inspired,  but,  like  other  mortals,  quietly  cherish 
their  thoughts,  and  patiently  wait  the  moment 
that  will  disclose  new  glimpses  into  the  infinite, 
so  have  I  also  listened  gladly  to  Wordsworth 
himself,  in  his  poems,  which  contain  nothing 
more  than  any  one  might  have  said.  The 
greatest  poets  allow  themselves  rest.  In  Homer 
we  often  read  a  hundred  verses  without  a  single 
beauty,  and  just  so  in  Dante ;  while  Pindar,  whom 
all  admire  so  much,  drives  me  to  distraction 
with  his  ecstacies.  What  would  I  not  give  to 
spend  one  summer  on  the  lakes;  visit  with 
Wordsworth  all  the  places  to  which  he  has  given 
names;  greet  all  the  trees  which  he  has  saved 
from  the  axe;  and  only  once  watch  a  far-off 
sunset  with  him,  which  he  describes  as  only 
Turner  could  have  painted." 

It  was  a  peculiarity  of  hers  that  her  voice 
never  dropped  at  the  close  of  her  talk,  as  with 
most  people ;  on  the  contrary,  it  rose  and  always 
ended,  as  it  were,  in  the  broken  seventh  chord. 
She  always  talked  up,  never  down,  to  people. 


136  SEVENTH  MEMORY. 

The  melody  of  her  sentences  resembled  that  of 
the  child  when  it  says:  "Can't  I,  father?"  There 
was  something  beseeching  in  her  tones,  and  it 
was  well-nigh  impossible  to  gainsay  her. 

"  Wordsworth,"  said  I,  "  is  a  dear  poet,  and  a 
still  dearer  man  to  me,  and  as  one  often  has  a 
more  beautiful,  wide-spread,  and  stirring  outlook 
from  a  little  hill  which  he  ascends  without  effort, 
than  when  he  has  clambered  up  Mont  Blanc 
with  difficulty  and  weariness,  so  it  seems  to  me 
with  Wordsworth's  poetry.  At  first,  he  often 
appeared  commonplace  to  me,  and  I  have  fre- 
quently laid  down  his  poems  unable  to  under- 
stand how  the  best  minds  of  England  to-day  can 
cherish  such  an  admiration  for  him.  The  con- 
viction has  grown  upon  me  that  no  poet  whom 
his  nation,  or  the  intellectual  aristocracy  of  his 
people,  recognize  as  a  poet,  should  remain  un- 
enjoyed  by  us,  whatever  his  language.  Admira- 
tion is  an  art  which  we  must  learn.  Many 
Germans  say  Racine  does  not  please  them.  The 
Englishman  says,  'I  do  not  understand  Goethe.' 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  137 

The  Frenchman  says  Shakespeare  is  a  boor. 
What  does  all  this  amount  to?  Nothing  more 
than  the  child  who  says  it  likes  a  waltz  better 
than  a  symphony  of  Beethoven's.  The  art  con- 
sists in  discovering  and  understanding  what  each 
nation  admires  in  its  great  men.  He  who  seeks 
beauty  will  eventually  find  it,  and  discover  that 
the  Persians  are  not  entirely  deceived  in  their 
Hafiz,  nor  the  Hindoos  in  their  Kalidasa.  We 
cannot  understand  a  great  man  all  at  once.  It 
takes  strength,  effort,  and  perseverance,  and  it  is 
singular  that  what  pleases  us  at  first  sight  seldom 
captivates  us  any  length  of  time. 

"And  yet,"  she  continued,  "there  is  some- 
thing common  to  all  great  poets,  to  all  true 
artists,  to  all  the  world's  heroes,  be  they  Persian 
or  Hindoo,  heathen  or  Christian,  Roman  or  Ger- 
man; it  is  —  I  hardly  know  what  to  call  it  —  it 
is  the  Infinite  which  seems  to  lie  behind  them,  a 
far  away  glance  into  the  Eternal,  an  apotheosis 
of  the  most  trifling  and  transitory  things.  Goethe, 


138  SEVENTH  MEMORY. 

the  grand  heathen,  knew  the  sweet  peace  which 
comes  from  Heaven;  and  when  he  sings: 

On  every  mountain-height 

Is  rest. 
O'er  each  summit  white 

Thou  feelest 
Scarcely  a  breath. 

The  bird  songs  are  still  from  each  bough ; 
Only  wait,  soon  shall  thou 
Rest  too,  in  death. 

does  not  an  endless  distance,  a  repose  which 
earth  cannot  give,  disclose  itself  to  him  above 
the  fir-clad  summits  ?  This  background  is  never 
wanting  with  Wordsworth.  Let  the  carpers  say 
what  they  will,  it  is  nevertheless  only  the  super- 
earthly,  be  it  ever  so  obscure,  which  charms  and 
quiets  the  human  heart.  Who  has  better  under- 
stood this  earthly  beauty  than  Michel  Angelo? 
— but  he  understood  it,  because  it  was  to  him 
a  reflection  of  superearthly  beauty.  You  know 
his  sonnet: 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  139 

[La  forza  d'un  bel  volto  al  ciel  mi  sprona 

(Ch'altro  in  terra  non  e  che  mi  diletti), 

E  vivo  ascendo  tra  gli  spirti  eletti ; 

Grazia  ch'ad  uom  mortal  raro  si  dona. 
Si  ben  col  suo  Fattor  1'opra  consuona, 

Ch'a  lui  mi  levo  per  divin  concetti ; 

E  quivi  informo  i  pensier  tutti  e  i  detti ; 

Ardendo,  amando  per  gentil  persona. 
Onde,  se  mai  da  due  begli  occhi  il  guardo 

Torcer  non  so,  conosco  in  lor  la  luce 

Che  mi  mostra  la  via,  ch'a  Dio  mi  guide ; 
E  se  nel  lume  loro  acceso  io  ardo, 

Nel  nobil  foco  mio  dolce  riluce 

La  gioja  che  nel  cielo  eterna  ride."] 

'The  might  of  one  fair  face  sublimes  my  love, 
For  it  hath  weaned  my  heart  from  low  desires ; 
Nor  death  I  heed  nor  purgatorial  fires. 
Thy  beauty,  antepast  of  joys  above 
Instructs  me  in  the  bliss  that  saints  approve; 
For,  Oh !  how  good,  how  beautiful  must  be 
The  God  that  made  so  good  a  thing  as  thee, 
So  fair  an  image  of  the  Heavenly  Dove. 
Forgive  me  if  I  cannot  turn  away 
From  those  sweet  eyes  that  are  my  earthly  heaven, 


140  SEVENTH  MEMORY. 

For  they  are  guiding  stars,  benignly  given 
To  tempt  my  footsteps  to  the  upward  way; 
And  if  I  dwell  too  fondly  in  thy  sight, 
I  live  and  love  in  God's  peculiar  light." 

She  was  exhausted  and  silent,  and  how  could  I 
disturb  that  silence  ?  When  human  hearts,  after 
friendly  interchange  of  thoughts  feel  calmed  and 
quieted,  it  is  as  if  an  angel  had  flown  through 
the  room  and  we  heard  the  gentle  flutter  of  wings 
over  our  heads.  As  my  gaze  rested  upon  her, 
her  lovely  form  seemed  illuminated  in  the  twi- 
light of  the  summer  evening,  and  her  hand, 
which  I  held  in  mine,  alone  gave  me  the  con- 
sciousness of  her  real  presence.  Then  suddenly 
a  bright  refulgence  spread  over  her  countenance. 
She  felt  it,  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  upon  me 
wonderingly.  The  wonderful  brightness  of  her 
eyes,  which  the  half-closed  eyelids  covered  as 
with  a  veil,  shone  like  the  lightning.  I  looked 
around  and  at  last  saw  that  the  moon  had  arisen 
in  full  splendor  between  two  peaks  opposite  the 
castle,  and  brightened  the  lake  and  the  village 


A    STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          141 

with  its  friendly  smiles.  Never  had  I  seen  Na- 
ture, never  had  I  seen  her  dear  face  so  beautiful, 
never  had  such  holy  rest  settled  down  upon  my 
soul.  "Marie,"  said  I,  "in  this  resplendent  mo- 
ment, let  me,  just  as  I  am,  confess  my  whole 
love.  Let  us,  while  we  feel  so  powerfully  the 
nearness  of  the  superearthly,  unite  our  souls  in 
a  tie  which  can  never  again  be  broken.  What- 
ever love  may  be,  Marie,  I  love  you  and  I  feel, 
Marie,  you  are  mine  for  I  am  thine." 

I  knelt  before  her,  but  ventured  not  to  look 
into  her  eyes.  My  lips  touched  her  hand  and  I 
kissed  it.  At  this  she  withdrew  her  hand  from 
me,  slowly  at  first  and  then  quickly  and  decided- 
ly, and  as  I  looked  at  her  an  expression  of  pain 
was  on  her  face.  She  was  silent  for  a  time,  but 
at  last  she  raised  herself  and  said  with  a  deep 
sigh  : 

"  Enough  for  to-day.  You  have  caused  me 
pain,  but  it  is  my  fault.  Close  the  window.  I 
feel  a  cold  chill  coming  over  me  as  if  a  strange 
hand  were  touching  me.  Stay  with  me — but  no, 


142  SEVENTH  MEMORY. 

you  must  go.  Farewell !  Sleep  well !  Pray  that 
the  peace  of  God  may  abide  with  us.  We  see 
each  other  again  —  shall  we  not?  To-morrow 
evening  I  await  you." 

Oh,  where  all  at  once  had  this  heavenly  rest 
flown?  I  saw  how  she  suffered,  and  all  that  I 
could  do  was  to  quickly  hurry  away,  summon 
the  English  lady  and  then  go  alone  in  the  dark- 
ness of  night  to  the  village.  Long  time  I  wan- 
dered back  and  forth  about  the  lake,  long  my 
gaze  strayed  to  the  lighted  window  where  I  had 
just  been.  Finally,  the  last  light  in  the  castle 
was  extinguished.  The  moon  mounted  higher 
and  higher,  and  every  pinnacle  and  projection 
and  decoration  on  the  lofty  walls  grew  visible  in 
the  fairy-like  illumination.  Here  was  I  all  alone 
in  the  silent  night.  It  seemed  to  me  my  brain 
had  refused  its  office,  for  no  thought  came  to  an 
end  and  I  only  felt  I  was  alone  on  this  earth, 
that  it  contained  no  soul  for  me.  The  earth 
was  like  a  coffin,  the  black  sky  a  funeral  pall, 
and  I  scarcely  knew  whether  I  was  living  or  had 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE. 


143 


long  been  dead.  Then  I  suddenly  looked  up  to 
the  stars  with  their  blinking  eyes,  which  went 
their  way  so  quietly  —  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
they  were  only  for  the  lighting  and  consolation 
of  men,  and  then  I  thought  of  two  heavenly  stars 
which  had  risen  in  my  dark  heaven  so  unex- 
pectedly, and  a  thanksgiving  rang  through  my 
breast  —  a  thanksgiving  for  the  love  of  my  angel. 


LAST   MEMORY. 


LAST   MEMORY. 


THE  sun  was  already  looking  into  my  win- 
dow over  the  mountains  when  I  awoke. 
Was  it  the  same  sun  which  looked  upon  us  the 
evening  before  with  lingering  gaze,  like  a  de- 
parting friend,  as  if  it  would  bless  the  union 
of  our  souls,  and  which  set  like  a  lost  hope? 
It  shone  upon  me  now,  like  a  child  which 
bursts  into  our  room  with  beaming  glance  to 
wish  us  good  morning  on  a  joyful  holiday. 
And  was  I  the  same  man  who,  only  a  few 
hours  before,  had  thrown  himself  upon  his  bed, 
broken  in  body  and  spirit  ?  Immediately  I  felt 
once  more  the  old  life-courage  and  trust  in 
God  and  myself,  which  quickened  and  ani- 
mated my  soul  like  the  fresh  morning  breeze. 
What  would  become  of  man  without  sleep? 
We  know  not  where  this  nightly  messenger 


148  LAST  MEMORY. 

leads  us ;  and  when  he  closes  our  eyes  at  night 
who  can  assure  us  that  he  will  open  them 
again  in  the  morning  —  that  he  will  bring  us 
to  ourselves?  It  required  courage  and  faith 
for  the  first  man  to  throw  himself  into  the 
arms  of  this  unknown  friend;  and  were  there 
not  in  our  nature  a  certain  helplessness  which 
forces  us  to  submission,  and  compels  us  to 
have  faith  in  all  things  we  are  to  believe,  I 
doubt  whether  any  man,  notwithstanding  all  his 
weariness,  could  close  his  eyes  of  his  own  free 
will  and  enter  into  this  unknown  dream-land. 
The  very  consciousness  of  our  weakness  and 
our  weariness  gives  us  faith  in  a  higher  power, 
and  courage  to  resign  ourselves  to  the  beauti- 
ful system  of  the  All,  and  we  feel  invigorated 
and  refreshed  when,  in  waking  or  in  sleeping^ 
we  have  loosened,  even  for  a  short  time  only, 
the  chains  which  bind  our  Eternal  Self  to  oui 
temporal  Ego. 

What   had   appeared  to  me,  only  yesterday, 
dark  as  an  evening  cloud  flying  overhead,  be- 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          149 

came  instantly  clear.  We  belonged  to  one 
another,  that  I  felt;  be  it  as  brother  and  sis- 
ter, father  and  child,  bridegroom  and  bride,  we 
must  remain  together  now  and  forever.  It  only 
concerned  us  to  find  the  right  name  for  that 
which  we  in  our  stammering  speech  call  Love. 

"  Thy  elder  brother  I  would  be, 
Thy  father  —  anything  to  thee." 

It  was  this  "  anything  "  for  which  a  name  must 
be  found,  for  the  world  now  recognizes  nothing 
as  nameless.  She  had  told  me  herself  that  she 
loved  me  with  that  pure  all-human  love,  out 
of  which  springs  all  other  love.  Her  shudder- 
ing, her  uneasiness,  when  I  confessed  my  full 
love  to  her,  were  still  incomprehensible  to  me, 
but  it  could  no  longer  shatter  my  faith  in  our 
love.  Why  should  we  desire  to  understand  all 
that  takes  place  in  other  human  natures,  when 
there  is  so  much  that  is  incomprehensible  in 
our  own?  After  all,  it  is  the  inconceivable 
which  generally  captivates  us,  whether  in  na- 


150  LAST  MEMORY. 

ture,  in  man,  or  in  our  own  breasts.  Men 
whom  we  understand,  whose  motives  we  see 
before  us  like  an  anatomical  preparation,  leave 
us  cold,  like  the  characters  in  most  of  our 
novels.  Nothing  spoils  our  delight  in  life  and 
men  more  than  this  ethic  rationalism  which 
insists  upon  clearing  up  everything,  and  illu- 
minating every  mystery  of  our  inner  being. 
There  is  in  every  person  a  something  that  is 
inseparable  —  we  call  it  fate,  the  suggestive 
power  or  character  —  and  he  knows  neither 
himself  nor  mankind,  who  believes  that  he  can 
analyze  the  deeds  and  actions  of  men  without 
taking  into  account  this  ever-recurring  prin- 
ciple. Thus  I  consoled  myself  on  all  those 
points  which  had  troubled  me  in  the  evening; 
and  at  last  no  streak  of  cloud  obscured  the 
heaven  of  the  future. 

In  this  frame  of  mind  I  stepped  out  of  the 
close  house  into  the  open  air,  when  a  mes- 
senger brought  a  letter  for  me.  It  was  from 
the  Countess,  as  I  saw  by  the  beautiful,  deli- 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          151 

cate  handwriting.  I  breathlessly  opened  it  —  I 
looked  for  the  most  blissful  tidings  man  can 
expect.  But  all  my  hopes  were  immediately 
shattered.  The  letter  contained  only  a  request 
not  to  visit  her  to-day,  as  she  expected  a  visit 
at  the  castle  from  the  Court  Residence.  No 
friendly  word  —  no  news  of  her  health  —  only 
at  the  close,  a  postscript :  "  The  Hofrath  will 
be  here  to-morrow  and  the  next  day." 

Here  were  two  days  torn  out  at  once  from 
the  book  of  life.  If  they  could  only  be  com- 
pletely obliterated  —  but  no,  they  hang  over  me 
like  the  leaden  roof  of  a  prison.  They  must 
be  lived.  I  could  not  give  them  away  as  a 
charity  to  king  or  beggar,  who  would  gladly 
have  sat  two  days  longer  upon  his  throne,  or 
on  his  stone  at  the  church  door.  I  remained 
in  this  abstraction  for  a  long  time;  but  then  I 
thought  of  my  morning  prayer,  and  how  I  said 
to  myself  there  was  no  greater  unbelief  than 
despondency  —  how  the  smallest  and  greatest 
in  life  are  part  of  one  great  divine  plan,  to 


152  LAST  MEMORY. 

which  we  must  submit,  however  hard  it  may 
be.  Like  a  rider  who  sees  a  precipice  before 
him,  I  drew  in  the  reins.  "  Be  it  so,  since  it 
must  be!"  I  cried  out;  "but  God's  earth  is  not 
the  place  for  complaints  and  lamentations.  Is 
it  not  a  happiness  to  hold  in  my  hand  these 
lines  which  she  has  written?  and  is  not  the 
hope  of  seeing  her  again  in  a  short  time  a 
greater  bliss  than  I  have  ever  deserved?  'Al- 
ways keep  the  head  above  water,'  say  all  good 
life-swimmers.  As  well  sink  at  once  as  allow 
the  water  to  run  into  your  eyes  and  throat." 
If  it  is  hard  for  us,  amid  these  little  ills  of  life, 
to  keep  God's  providence  continually  in  view, 
and  if  we  hesitate,  perhaps  rightly,  in  every 
struggle,  to  step  out  of  the  common-places  of 
life  into  the  presence  of  the  divine,  then  life 
ought  to  appear,  to  us  at  least,  an  art,  if  not 
a  duty.  What  is  more  disagreeable  than  the 
child  who  behaves  ungovernably  and  grows 
dejected  and  angry  at  every  little  loss  and 
pain?  On  the  other  hand,  nothing  is  more 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          153 

beautiful  than  the  child  in  whose  tearful  eyes 
the  sunshine  of  joy  and  innocence  soon  beams 
again,  like  the  flower,  which  quivers  and  trem- 
bles in  the  spring  shower,  and  soon  after  blos- 
soms and  exhales  its  fragrance,  as  the  sun  dries 
the  tears  upon  its  cheeks. 

A  good  thought  speedily  occurred  to  me,  that 
I  could  live  both  these  days  with  her,  notwith- 
standing fate.  For  a  long  time  I  had  intended 
to  write  down  the  dear  words  she  had  said,  and 
the  many  beautiful  thoughts  she  had  confided  to^ 
me ;  and  so  the  days  passed  away  in  memory  of 
the  many  charming  hours  spent  together,  and  in 
the  hope  of  a  still  more  beautiful  future,  and  I 
was  by  her  and  with  her,  and  lived  in  her,  and 
felt  the  nearness  of  her  spirit  and  her  love  more 
than  I  had  ever  felt  them  when  I  held  her  hand 
in  mine. 

How  dear  to  me  now  are  these  leaves !  How 
often  have  I  read  and  re-read  them  —  not  that 
I  had  forgotten  one  word  she  said,  but  they  were 
the  witnesses  of  my  happiness,  and  something 


154  LAST  MEMORY. 

looked  out  of  them  upon  me  like  the  gaze  of  a 
friend,  whose  silence  speaks  more  than  words. 
The  memory  of  a  past  happiness,  the  memory 
of  a  past  sorrow,  the  silent  meditation  upon  the 
past,  when  everything  disappears  that  surrounds 
and  restrains  us,  when  the  soul  throws  itself 
down,  like  a  mother  upon  the  green  grave- 
mound  of  her  child  who  has  slept  under  it  many 
long  years,  when  no  hope,  no  desire,  disturbs 
the  silence  of  peaceful  resignation,  we  may  well 
call  sadness,  but  there  is  a  rapture  in  this  sad- 
ness which  only  those  know  who  have  loved  and 
suffered  much.  Ask  the  mother  what  she  feels 
when  she  ties  upon  the  head  of  her  daughter  the 
veil  she  once  wore  as  a  bride,  and  thinks  of  the 
husband  no  longer  with  her !  Ask  a  man  what 
he  feels  when  the  maiden  whom  he  has  loved, 
and  the  world  has  torn  from  him,  sends  him 
after  death  the  dried  rose  which  he  gave  her  in 
youth !  They  may  both  weep,  but  their  tears 
are  not  tears  of  sorrow,  but  tears  of  joy;  tears 
of  sacrifice,  with  which  man  consecrates  himself 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          155 

to  the  Divine,  and  with  faith  in  God'S  love  and 
wisdom,  looks  upon  the  dearest  he  has  passing 
away  from  him. 

Still  let  us  go  back  in  memory,  back  in  the 
living  presence  of  the  past.  The  two  days  flew 
so  swiftly  that  I  was  agitated,  as  the  happiness 
of  seeing  her  again  drew  nearer  and  nearer.  As 
the  carriages  and  horsemen  arrived  on  the  first 
day  from  the  city,  I  saw  that  the  castle  was  alive 
with  gaily-dressed  visitors.  Banners  fluttered 
from  the  roof,  music  sounded  through  the 
castle-yard.  In  the  evening,  the  lake  swarmed 
with  pleasure-boats.  The  mcennerchors  sounded 
over  the  waves,  and  I  could  not  but  listen,  for 
I  fancied  she  also  listened  to  these  songs  from 
the  window.  Everything  was  stirring,  also,  on 
the  second  day,  and  early  in  the  afternoon  the 
guests  prepared  for  departure.  Late  in  the 
evening  I  saw  the  Hofrath's  carriage  also  going 
back  alone  to  the  city.  I  could  not  restrain 
myself  any  longer.  I  knew  she  was  alone.  I 
knew  she  thought  of  me,  and  longed  for  me. 


156  LAST  MEMORY. 

Should  I  allow  one  night  to  pass  without  at 
least  pressing  her  hand,  without  saying  to  her 
that  the  separation  was  over,  that  the  next 
morning  would  waken  us  to  new  rapture.  I 
still  saw  a  light  in  her  window  —  why  should 
she  be  alone?  Why  should  I  not,  for  one 
moment  at  least,  feel  her  sweet  presence?  Al- 
ready I  stood  at  the  castle ;  already  I  was  about 
to  pull  the  bell  —  then  suddenly  I  stopped  and 
said :  "  No !  no  weakness !  You  should  be 
ashamed  to  stand  before  her  like  a  thief  in 
the  night.  Early  in  the  morning  go  to  her  like 
a  hero,  returning  from  battle,  for  whom  she  is 
now  weaving  the  crown  of  love,  which  she  will 
place  upon  thy  head  in  the  morning." 

And  the  morning  came  —  and  I  was  with  her, 
really  with  her.  Oh,  speak  not  of  the  spirit  as  if 
it  could  exist  without  the  body.  Complete  exist- 
ence, consciousness,  and  enjoyment,  can  only  be 
where  body  and  soul  are  one  —  an  embodied 
spirit,  a  spiritualized  body.  There  is  no  spirit 
without  body,  else  it  would  be  a  ghost :  there  is 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          157 

no  body  without  spirit,  else  it  would  be  a  corpse. 
Is  the  flower  in  the  field  without  spirit  ?  Does 
it  not  appear  in  a  divine  will,  in  a  creative 
thought  which  preserves  it,  and  gives  it  life  and 
existence  ?  That  is  its  soul  —  only  it  is  silent  in 
the  flower,  while  it  manifests  itself  in  man  by 
words.  Real  life  is,  after  all,  the  bodily  and 
spiritual  life ;  real  consciousness  is,  after  all,  the 
bodily  and  spiritual  consciousness;  real  being 
together  is,  after  all,  bodily  and  spiritually  being 
together,  and  the  whole  world  of  memory  in 
which  I  had  lived  so  happily  for  two  days,  dis- 
appeared like  a  shadow,  like  a  nonentity,  as  I 
stood  before  her,  and  was  really  with  her.  I 
could  have  laid  my  hands  upon  her  brow,  her 
eyes,  and  her  cheeks,  to  know,  to  unmistakably 
know,  if  it  were  really  she  —  not  only  the  image 
which  had  hovered  before  my  soul  day  and 
night,  but  a  being  who  was  not  mine,  and  still 
could  and  would  be  mine;  a  being  in  whom  I 
could  believe  as  in  myself;  a  being  far  from  me 
and  yet  nearer  to  me  than  my  own  self;  a  being 


158  LAST  MEMORY. 

without  whom  my  life  was  no  life,  death  was  no 
death ;  without  whom  my  poor  existence  would 
dissolve  into  infinity  like  a  sigh.  I  felt,  as  my 
thoughts  and  glances  rested  upon  her,  that  now, 
in  this  very  instant,  the  happiness  of  my  exist- 
ence was  complete  —  and  a  shudder  crept  over 
me  as  I  thought  of  death  —  but  it  seemed  no 
longer  to  have  any  terror  for  me;  for  death 
could  not  destroy  this  love ;  it  would  only  purify, 
ennoble,  and  immortalize  it. 

It  was  so  beautiful  to  be  silent  with  her. 
The  whole  depth  of  her  soul  was  reflected  in 
her  countenance,  and  as  I  looked  upon  her  I 
saw  and  heard  her  every  thought  and  emotion. 
"You  make  me  sad,"  she  seemed  on  the  point 
of  saying,  and  yet  would  not.  "Are  we  not 
together  again  at  last?  Be  quiet!  Complain 
not!  Ask  not!  Speak  not!  Be  welcome  to 
me!  Be  not  bad  to  me!"  All  this  looked  from 
her  eyes,  and  still  we  did  not  venture  to  disturb 
the  peace  of  our  happiness  with  a  word. 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          159 

"  Have  you  received  a  letter  from  the  Ho- 
frath?"  was  the  first  question,  and  her  voice 
trembled  with  each  word. 

"  No,"  I  replied. 

She  was  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  said: 
"  Perhaps  it  is  better  it  has  happened  thus,  and 
that  I  can  tell  you  everything  myself.  My  friend, 
we  see  each  other  to-day  for  the  last  time.  Let 
us  part  in  peace,  without  complaint  and  without 
anger.  I  feel  that  I  have  done  you  a  great 
wrong.  I  have  intruded  upon  your  life  without 
thinking  that  even  a  light  breath  often  withers 
a  flower.  I  know  so  little  of  the  world  that  I 
did  not  believe  a  poor  suffering  being  like  my- 
self could  inspire  anything  but  pity.  I  welcomed 
you  in  a  frank  and  friendly  way  because  I  had 
known  you  so  long,  because  I  felt  so  well  in  your 
presence  —  why  should  I  not  tell  all? — because 
I  loved  you.  But  the  world  does  not  understand 
or  tolerate  this  love.  The  Hofrath  has  opened 
my  eyes.  The  whole  city  is  talking  about  us. 
My  brother,  the  Regent,  has  written  to  the 


l6o  LAST  MEMORY. 

Prince,  and  he  requests  me  never  to  see  you 
again.  I  deeply  regret  that  I  have  caused  you 
this  sorrow.  Tell  me  you  forgive  me  —  and 
then  let  us  separate  as  friends." 

Her  eyes  had  filled  with  tears,  and  she  closed 
them  that  I  should  not  see  her  weeping. 

"  Marie,"  said  I,  "  for  me  there  is  but  one  life 
which  is  with  you ;  but  for  you  there  is  one  will 
which  is  your  own.  Yes,  I  confess,  I  love  you 
with  the  whole  fire  of  love,  but  I  feel  I  am  not 
worthily  yours.  You  stand  far  above  me  in 
nobility,  sublimity  and  purity,  and  I  can  scarcely 
understand  the  thought  of  ever  calling  you  my 
wife.  And,  yet,  there  is  no  other  road  on  which 
we  could  travel  through  life  together.  Marie, 
you  are  wholly  free ;  I  ask  for  no  sacrifice.  The 
world  is  great,  and  if  you  wish  it,  we  shall  never 
see  each  other  again.  But  if  you  love  me,  if  you 
feel  you  are  mine,  oh,  then,  let  us  forget  the 
world  and  its  cold  verdict.  In  my  arms  I  will 
bear  you  to  the  altar,  and  on  my  knees  I  wil) 
swear  to  be  yours  in  life  and  in  death." 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          161 

"  My  friend,"  said  she,  "  we  must  never  wish 
for  the  impossible.  Had  it  been  God's  will  that 
such  a  tie  should  unite  us  in  this  life,  would  He, 
forsooth,  have  imposed  these  burdens  upon  me 
which  make  me  incapable  of  being  else  than 
a  helpless  child?  Do  not  forget  that  what  we 
call  Fate,  Circumstance,  Relations,  in  life,  is  in 
reality  only  the  work  of  Providence.  To  resist 
it  is  to  resist  God  himself,  and  were  it  not  so 
childish  one  might  call  it  presumptuous.  Men 
wander  on  earth  like  the  stars  in  heaven.  God 
has  indicated  the  paths  upon  which  they  meet, 
and  if  they  are  to  separate,  they  must.  Resist- 
ance were  useless,  otherwise  it  would  destroy  the 
whole  system  of  the  world.  We  cannot  under- 
stand it,  but  we  can  submit  to  it.  I  cannot  my- 
self understand  why  my  inclination  towards  you 
was  wrong.  No !  I  cannot,  will  not  call  it  wrong. 
But  it  cannot  be,  it  is  not  to  be.  My  friend, 
this  is  enough  —  we  must  submit  in  humility  and 
faith." 

ii 


1 62  LAST  MEMORY. 

Notwithstanding  the  calmness  with  which  she 
spoke,  I  saw  how  deeply  she  suffered ;  and  yet  I 
thought  it  wrong  to  surrender  so  quickly  in  this 
battle  of  life.  I  restrained  myself  as  much  as  I 
could,  so  that  no  passionate  word  should  increase 
her  trouble,  and  said : 

"  If  this  is  the  last  time  we  are  to  meet  in 
this  life,  let  us  see  clearly  to  whom  we  offer  this 
sacrifice.  If  .our  love  violated  any  higher  law 
whatsoever,  I  would,  as  you  say,  bow  myself  in 
humility.  It  were  a  forgetfulness  of  God  to  op- 
pose one's  self  to  a  higher  will.  It  may  seem  at 
times  as  if  men  could  delude  God,  as  if  their 
small  sense  had  gained  some  advantage  over  the 
Divine  wisdom.  This  is  frenzy  —  and  the  man 
who  commences  this  Titanic  battle,  will  be 
crushed  and  annihilated.  But  what  opposes  our 
love?  Nothing  but  the  talk  of  the  world.  I 
respect  the  customs  of  human  society.  I  even 
respect  them  when,  as  in  our  time,  they  are  over- 
refined  and  confused.  A  sick  body  needs  arti- 
ficial medicines,  and  without  the  barriers,  the 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.  163 

respect  and  the  prejudices  of  society,  at  which 
we  smile,  it  were  impossible  to  hold  mankind 
together  as  at  present  existing,  and  to  accomplish 
the  purpose  of  our  temporal  co-existence.  We 
must  sacrifice  much  to  these  divinities.  Like  the 
Athenians,  we  send  every  year  a  heavy  boatload 
of  youths  and  maidens  as  tribute  to  this  monster 
which  rules  the  labyrinth  of  our  society.  There 
is  no  longer  a  heart  that  has  not  broken ;  there 
is  no  longer  a  man  of  true  feelings  who  has  not 
been  obliged  to  break  the  wings  of  his  love  be- 
fore he  came  into  the  cage  of  society  for  rest. 
It  must  be  so.  It  cannot  be  otherwise.  You 
know  not  life,  but  thinking  only  of  my  friends,  I 
can  tell  you  many  volumes  of  tragedy. 

"  One  loved  a  maiden,  and  the  love  was  re- 
turned ;  but  he  was  poor,  she  was  rich.  The 
fathers  and  relatives  wrangled  and  sneered,  and 
two  hearts  were  broken.  Why  ?  Because  the 
world  looked  upon  it  as  a  misfortune  for  a 
woman  to  wear  a  dress  made  of  the  wool  of 


1 64  LAST  MEMORY. 

a  shrub  in  America,  and  not  of  the  fibres  of 
a  worm  in  China. 

"Another  loved  a  maiden,  and  was  loved  in 
return ;  but  he  was  a  Protestant,  she  was  a 
Catholic.  The  mothers  and  the  priests  bred 
mischief,  and  two  hearts  were  broken.  Why? 
On  account  of  a  political  game  of  chess  which 
Charles  V  and  Henry  VIII  played  together, 
three  hundred  years  ago. 

"A  third  loved  a  maiden,  and  was  loved  in 
return ;  but  he  was  a  noble,  she  a  peasant.  The 
sisters  were  angry,  and  quarreled,  and  two  hearts 
were  broken.  Why  ?  Because,  a  hundred  years 
ago,  one  soldier  slew  another  in  battle,  who 
threatened  the  life  of  his  king.  This  gave  him 
title  and  honors,  and  his  great  grandson  ex- 
piated the  blood  shed  at  that  time,  with  a 
disappointed  life. 

"The  statisticians  say  a  heart  is  broken  every 
hour,  and  I  believe  it.  But  why?  In  almost 
every  case,  because  the  world  does  not  recog- 
nize love  between  '  strange  people,'  unless  it  be 


A   STOKY  OF  GEKMAN  LOVE.          165 

between  man  and  wife.  If  two  maidens  love 
the  same  man  —  the  one  must  fall  as  a  sacri- 
fice. If  two  men  love  the  same  maiden,  one 
or  both  must  fall  as  a  sacrifice.  Why?  Can- 
not one  love  a  maiden,  without  wishing  to 
marry  her?  Cannot  one  look  upon  a  woman, 
without  desiring  her  for  his  own  ?  You  close 
your  eyes,  and  I  feel  I  have  said  too  much. 
The  world  has  changed  the  most  sacred  things 
in  life  into  the  most  common.  But,  Marie, 
enough  !  Let  us  talk  the  language  of  the  world 
when  we  must  talk,  and  act  in  it,  and  with  it. 
But  let  us  preserve  a  sanctuary  where  two 
hearts  can  speak  the  pure  language  of  the 
heart,  undisturbed  by  the  raging  of  the  world 
without.  The  world  itself  honors  this  seclu- 
sion, this  courageous  resistance,  which  noble 
hearts,  conscious  of  their  own  rectitude,  oppose 
to  the  ordinary  course  of  things.  The  atten- 
tions, the  amenities,  the  prejudices  of  the  world 
are  like  a  climbing  plant.  It  is  pleasant  to 
see  an  ivy,  with  its  thousand  tendrils  and  roots, 


1 66  LAST  MEMORY. 

decorating  the  solid  wall-work ;  but  it  should 
not  be  allowed  too  luxuriant  growth,  else  it 
will  penetrate  every  crevice  of  the  structure, 
and  destroy  the  cement  which  welds  it  together. 
Be  mine,  Marie;  follow  the  voice  of  your  heart. 
The  word  which  now  hangs  upon  your  lips  de- 
cides forever  your  life  and  mine  —  my  happi- 
ness and  yours." 

I  was  silent.  The  hand  I  held  in  mine  re- 
turned the  warm  pressure  of  the  heart.  A 
storm  raged  in  her  breast,  and  the  blue  heaven 
before  me  never  seemed  so  beautiful  as  now, 
while  the  storm  swept  by,  cloud  upon  cloud. 

"  Why  do  you  love  me  ?"  said  she,  gently,  as 
if  she  must  still  delay  the  moment  of  decision. 

"Why,  Marie?  Ask  the  child  why  it  is 
born;  ask  the  flower  why  it  blossoms;  ask  the 
sun  why  it  shines.  I  love  you  because  I  must 
love  you.  But  if  I  am  compelled  to  answer 
further,  let  this  book,  lying  by  you,  which  you 
love  so  much,  speak  for  me: 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          167 

[,,£)a§  be§te  folte  ba§  liebSte  §in,  unb  in  bi§er  Jibe 
§olte  nicf)t  angeSetyen  roerben  nufc  unb  unnufc,  fromen 
ober  Sdcjaben,  geroin  ober  oorluSt,  ere  ober  unere,  lob 
ober  unlob  ober  bi§er  r"etn§,  Sunber  roa§  in  ber 
roarljeit  ba§  ebelSte  unb  ba§  otter  be§te  t§t,  ba§  §olt 
aucb,  ba§  atterliebste  §in,  unb  umb  ni(f)t§  anber§  ban 
attein  umb  ba§,  ba§  e§  ba§  ebel§t  unb  ba§  be§te  i§t. 
^ie  nad^  medjt  ein  menSdje  situ  leben  geric^ten  oon 
uf§en  unb  oon  innen.  3Son  u[§en :  roan  unber  ben 
creaturen  i§t  ein§  be§§er  ban  ba§  anber,  bar  nac§ 
ban  ba§  erotg  gut  in  einem  mer  ober  mtnner  Spinet 
unb  rourfet  ban  in  bent  anbern.  ^|n  roe(c§em  nun 
ba§  erotg  gut  atter  mei§t  Spinet,  lucfjtet,  rourfet  unb 
befant  unb  geliebet  rotrt,  ba§  i§t  outy  ba§  be§te  unber 
ben  creaturen ;  unb  in  roelcfjem  bi§  mtn§t  i§t,  ba§  i§t 
oud§  ba§  atter  min§t  gut.  @o  nu  ber  tnenSdje  bie 
creatur  fyanbelt  unb  ba  mit  umb  get,  unb  bt§en 
unber§c§eit  befennet,  §o  §ol  im  ie  bie  be§te  creatur 
bie  liebSte  §in  unb  §ol  §id§  mit  fli§  ju  ir  ^alben  unb 
§td§  ba  mit  ooreintgen  .  .  ."] 

"  The  best  should  be  the  most  loved,  and  in 
this  love  there  should  be  no  consideration  of 
advantage  or  disadvantage,  gain  or  loss,  honor  01 
dishonor,  praise  or  blame,  or  anything  else,  but 
of  that  which  in  reality  is  the  noblest  and  best, 


1 68  LAST  MEMORY. 

which  should  be  the  dearest  of  all ;  and  for  no 
other  reason,  but  because  it  is  the  noblest  and 
best.  According  to  this  a  man  should  plan  his 
inner  and  outer  life.  From  without:  if  among 
mankind  there  is  one  better  than  another,  in 
proportion  as  the  eternally  good  shines  or  works 
more  in  one  than  in  another.  That  being  in 
whom  the  eternally  good  shines,  works,  is  known 
and  loved  most,  is  therefore  the  best  among 
mankind;  and  in  whom  this  is  most,  there  is 
also  the  most  good.  As  now  a  man  has  inter- 
course with  a  being,  and  apprehends  this  distinc- 
tion, then  the  best  being  should  be  the  dearest 
to  him,  and  he  should  fervently  cling  to  it,  and 
unite  himself  with  it " 

"Because  you  are  the  most  perfect  creature 
that  I  know,  Marie,  therefore  I  am  good  to  you, 
therefore  you  are  dear  to  me,  therefore  we  love 
each  other.  Speak  the  word  which  lives  in  you, 
say  that  you  are  mine.  Deny  not  your  inner- 
most convictions.  God  has  imposed  a  life  of 
suffering  upon  you.  He  sent  me  to  bear  it  with 
you.  Your  sorrow  shall  be  my  sorrow,  and  we 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          169 

will  bear  it  together,  as  the  ship  bears  the  heavy 
sails  which  guide  it  through  the  storms  of  life 
into  the  safe  haven  at  last." 

She  grew  more  and  more  silent.  A  gentle 
flush  played  upon  her  cheeks  like  the  quiet 
evening  gleam.  Then  she  opened  her  eyes  full 
—  the  sun  gleamed  all  at  once  with  marvellous 
lustre. 

"I  am  yours,"  said  she.  "God  wills  it.  Take 
me  just  as  I  am;  so  long  as  I  live  I  am  yours, 
and  may  God  bring  us  together  again  in  a  more 
beautiful  life,  and  recompense  your  love." 

We  lay  heart  to  heart.  My  lips  closed  the 
lips  upon  which  had  just  now  hung  the  blessing 
of  my  life,  with  a  gentle  kiss.  Time  stood  still 
for  us.  The  world  about  us  disappeared.  Then 
a  deep  sigh  escaped  from  her  breast.  "  May 
God  forgive  me  for  this  rapture,"  she  whispered. 
"Leave  me  alone  now,  I  cannot  endure  more. 
Auf  wiedersehen!  my  friend,  my  loved  one,  my 
savior." 


LAST  MEMORY. 


These  were  the  last  words  I  ever  heard  from 
her.  But  no  —  I  had  reached  home  and  was 
lying  upon  my  bed  in  troubled  dreams.  It  was 
past  midnight  when  the  Hofrath  entered  my 
room.  "Our  angel  is  in  Heaven,"  said  he; 
"here  is  the  last  greeting  she  sends  you."  With 
these  words  he  gave  me  a  letter.  It  enclosed 
the  ring  which  she  had  given  me,  and  I  once  had 
given  her,  with  the  words:  "  As  God  wills."  It 
was  wrapped  in  an  old  paper,  whereon  she  had 
some  time  written  the  words  I  spoke  to  her 
when  a  child  :  "  What  is  thine,  is  mine.  Thy 
Marie." 

Hours  long,  we  sat  together  without  speaking. 
It  was  a  spiritual  swoon  which  Heaven  sends  us 
when  the  load  of  pain  becomes  greater  than  we 
can  bear.  At  last  the  old  man  arose,  took  my 
hand  and  said  :  "  We  see  each  other  to-day  for 
the  last  time,  for  you  must  leave  here,  and  my 
days  are  numbered.  There  is  but  one  thing  I 
must  say  to  you  —  a  secret  which  I  have  carried 
all  my  life,  and  confessed  to  no  one.  I  have 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          171 

always  longed  to  confess  it  to  some  one.  Listen 
to  me.  The  spirit  which  has  left  us  was  a  beau- 
tiful spirit,  a  majestic,  pure  soul,  a  deep,  true 
heart.  I  knew  one  spirit  as  beautiful  as  hers  — 
still  more  beautiful.  It  was  her  mother.  I  loved 
her  mother,  and  she  loved  me.  We  were  both 
poor,  and  I  struggled  with  life  to  obtain  an  hon- 
orable position  both  on  her  account  and  my  own. 
The  young  Prince  saw  my  bride  and  loved  her. 
He  was  my  Prince ;  he  loved  her  ardently.  He 
was  ready  to  make  any  sacrifice  and  to  elevate 
her,  the  poor  orphan,  to  the  rank  of  Princess. 
I  loved  her  so  that  I  sacrificed  the  happiness  of 
my  love  for  her.  I  forsook  my  native  land  and 
wrote  her  I  would  release  her  from  her  vow.  I 
never  saw  her  again,  except  on  her  death-bed. 
She  died  in  giving  birth  to  her  first  daughter. 
Now  you  know  why  I  loved  your  Marie,  and 
prolonged  her  life  from  day  to  day.  She  was 
the  only  being  that  linked  my  heart  to  this  life. 
Bear  life  as  I  have  borne  it.  Lose  not  a  day  in 
useless  lamentation.  Help  mankind  whenever 


172  LAST  MEMORY. 

you  can.  Love  them  and  thank  God  that  you 
have  seen  and  known  and  loved  on  this  earth 
such  a  human  heart  as  hers  —  and  that  you  have 
lost  it." 

"As  God  will"  said  I,  and  we  parted  for  life. 


And  days  and  weeks  and  months  and  years 
have  flown.  Home  is  a  stranger  to  me,  and  a 
foreign  land  is  my  home.  But  her  love  remains 
with  me,  and  as  a  tear  drops  into  the  ocean,  so 
has  her  love  dropped  into  the  living  ocean  of 
humanity  and  pervades  and  embraces  millions  — 
millions  of  the  "  strange  people  "  whom  I  have 
so  loved  from  childhood. 


Only  on  quiet  summer  days  like  this,  when 
one  in  the  green  woods  has  nature  alone  at  heart, 
and  knows  not  whether  there  are  human  beings 
without,  or  he  is  living  entirely  alone  in  the 
world,  then  there  is  a  stir  in  the  graveyard  of 
memory,  the  dead  thoughts  rise  again,  the  full 
omnipotence  of  love  returns  to  the  heart  and 


A   STORY  OF  GERMAN  LOVE.          173 

streams  out  from  that  beautiful  being  who  once 
looked  upon  me  with  her  deep  unfathomable 
eyes.  Then  it  seems  as  if  the  love  for  the  mil- 
lions were  lost  in  the  love  for  the  one,  my  good 
angel,  and  my  thoughts  are  dumb  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  incomprehensible  enigma  of  endless 
and  everlasting  love. 


THE  SURGEON'S  STORIES.     By  Z. 
TOPELIUS,  Professor  of  History,  University  of 
Finland.      Translated  from   the   original    Swedish 
comprising  — 

TIMES  OF  GTJSTAF  ADOLF, 

TIMES  OF  BATTLE  AND  BEST, 
TIMES  OF  CHAELES  XIL, 

TIMES  OF  FBEDERICK  I., 
TIMES  OF  LINNJETTS, 

TIMES  OF  ALCHEMY. 

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These  stories  have  been  everywhere  received  with  the  greatest 
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Swedish  and  Finnish  history.  They  combine  history  and  romance, 
and  the  two  are  woven  together  in  so  skilful  and  attractive  a  man- 
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read  all.  Of  their  distinguished  author  the  Saturday  Review, 
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fiction  that  has  been  translated  into  English  for  many  years." 
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The  Graphic,  New  York,  says  : 

"Topelius  is  evidently  a  great  romancer, —  a  great  romancer  in 
the  manner  of  Walter  Scott.  At  moments  in  his  writing  there  is 
positive  inspiration,  a  truth  and  vivid  reality  that  are  startling." 

The  Sun,  Philadelphia,  says  : 

"  We  would  much  prefer  teaching  a  youth  Swedish  history 
from  the  novels  of  Topelius  than  from  any  book  of  strict  histori- 
cal narrative." 

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•L'J-  AMY  FAY.  Eighth  edition.  i2mo,  352  pages. 
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"  One  of  the  brightest  small  books  we  have  seen  is  Amy  Fay's 
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playing.  They  are  full  of  simple,  artless,  yet  sharp  and  intelli- 
gent sayings  concerning  the  ways  and  tastes  of  the  fatherland. 
.  .  .  Her  observation  is  close  and  accurate,  and  the  sketches  of 
Tausig,  Liszt,  and  other  musical  celebrities  are  capitally  done." 

—  Christian  A  dvocate  (New  York). 

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home  life  of  the  German  people  is  presented  to  the  reader,  and 
the  atmosphere  of  art  seems  to  give  a  brightness  and  worth  to 
the  picture,  which  imparts  pleasure  with  the  interest  it  creates." 

—  Diuighfs  Journal  of  Music. 

"The  intrinsic  value  of  the  work  is  great;  its  simplicity,  its 
minute  details,  its  freedom  from  every  kind  of  affectation,  con- 
stitute in  themselves  most  admirable  qualities.  The  remarkably 
intimate  and  open  picture  we  get  of  Liszt  surpasses  any  picture 
of  him  heretofore  afforded.  It  is  a  charming  picture,  strong, 
simple,  gracious,  noble,  and  sincere." —  Times  (Chicago). 

"  In  delicacy  of  touch,  vivacity  and  ease  of  expression,  and 
general  charm  of  style,  these  letters  are  models  in  their  way. 
The  pictures  which  she  gives  of  the  various  masters  under 
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possess  when  they  are  drawn  from  life  and  with  fidelity."  — 
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TALES  FROM  FOREIGN  TONGUES, 


MEMORIES.    A  Story  of  German  Love.     By 

MAX  MULLER. 
GRAZIELLA.     A    Story  of  Italian  Love.     By 

ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE. 
MADELEINE.     A  Story  of  French  Love.     By 

JULES  SANDEAU. 
MARIE.     A    Story    of    Russian    Love.      By 

ALEXANDER  PUSHKIN. 

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Of  "  Memories,"  the  London  Academy  says :  "  It  is  a  prose 
poem.  ...  Its  beauty  and  pathos  show  us  a  fresh  phase  of  a 
many-sided  mind,  to  which  we  already  owe  large  debts  of 
gratitude." 

Of  "  Graziella,"  the  Boston  Post  says:  "  It  is  full  of  beauti- 
ful sentiment,  unique  and  graceful  in  style,  of  course,  as  were 
all  the  writings  of  this  distinguished  French  author." 

Of  "  Madeleine,"  the  New  York  Evening  Mail  says :  "  It  is 
one  of  the  most  exquisite  love  tales  that  ever  was  written, 
abounding  in  genuine  pathos  and  sparkling  wit,  and  so  pure  in 
its  sentiment  that  it  may  be  read  by  a  child." 

Of  "  Marie,"  the  Cincinnati  Gazette  says:  "  It  is  one  of  the 
purest,  sweetest  little  narratives  that  we  have  read  for  a  long 
time.  It  is  a  little  classic,  and  a  Russian  classic,  too." 

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THE   BOOK-LOVER.     A  Guide  to  the 
Best    Reading.      By  JAMES    BALDWIN,    Ph.  D. 
Sixth  edition,  i6mo,    cloth,   gilt  top,  201  pages.    Price, 

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Of  this  book,  on  the  best  in  English  Literature,  which  has 
already  been  declared  of  the  highest  value  by  the  testimony  of 
the  best  critics  in  this  country,  an  edition  of  one  thousand  copies 
has  just  been  ordered  for  London,  the  home  of  English  Liter- 
ature, —  a  compliment  of  which  its  scholarly  western  author  may 
justly  be  proud. 

We  know  of  no  work  of  the  kind  which  gives  so  much  useful 
information  in  so  small  a  space. — Evening  Telegram,  New 
York. 

Sound  in  theory  and  in  a  practical  point  of  view.  The  courses 
of  reading  laid  down  are  made  of  good  books,  and  in  general,  of 
the  best.  —  Independent,  New  York. 

Mr.  Baldwin  has  written  in  this  monograph  a  delightful  eulo- 
gium  of  books  and  their  manifold  influence,  and  has  gained 
therein  two  classes  of  readers,  —  the  scholarly  class,  to  which  he 
belongs,  and  the  receptive  class,  which  he  has  benefited.  — 
Evening  Mail  and  Express,  New  York. 

If  a  man  needs  that  the  love  of  books  be  cultivated  within  him, 
such  a  gem  of  a  book  as  Dr.  Baldwin's  ought  to  do  the  work. 
Perfect  and  inviting  in  all  that  a  book  ought  outwardly  to  be.  its 
contents  are  such  as  to  instruct  the  mind  at  the  same  time  that 
they  answer  the  taste,  and  the  reader  who  goes  carefully  through 
its  two  hundred  pages  ought  not  only  to  love  books  in  general 
better  than  he  ever  did  before,  but  to  love  them  more  wisely, 
more  intelligently,  more  discriminatingly,  and  with  more  profit 
to  his  own  soul.  — Literary  World,  Boston. 


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WE    TWO    ALONE    IN     EUROPE. 
By  MARY  L.  NINDE.    Illustrated  from  Original 
Designs. 

xzmo,  348  pages,  price,  $1.50. 

The  foreign  travels  which  gave  rise  to  this  volume  were  of  a 
novel  and  perhaps  unprecedented  kind.  Two  young  American 
girls  started  for  "  the  grand  tour  "  with  the  father  of  one  of  them, 
and  he  being  compelled  to  return  home  from  London  they  were 
courageous  enough  to  continue  their  journeyings  alone.  They 
spent  two  years  in  travel,  —  going  as  far  north  as  the  North  Cape 
and  south  to  the  Nile,  and  including  in  their  itinerary  St.  Peters- 
burg and  Moscow.  Miss  Ninde's  narrative  is  written  in  a  fresh 
and  sprightly  but  unsensational  style,  which,  with  the  unusual  ex- 
periences portrayed,  renders  the  work  quite  unlike  the  ordinary 
books  of  travel. 

It  is  a  narrative  told  so  naturally  and  so  vividly  that  the  two 
gentle  travellers  do  not  seem  to  be  "  alone,"  but  to  have  taken  at 
least  the  reader  along  with  them.  .  .  .  It  is  filled  with  so  many 
interesting  glimpses  of  sights  and  scenes  in  many  lands  as  to  ren- 
der it  thoroughly  entertaining.  —  The  Congregationalist,  Boston. 

As  the  work  of  a  bright  American  girl,  the  book  is  sure  to  com- 
mand wide  attention.  The  volume  is  handsomely  bound  and 
copiously  illustrated  with  views  drawn,  if  we  mistake  not,  by  the 
author's  own  fair  hands,  so  well  do  they  accord  with  the  viva- 
cious spirit  of  her  narrative.  —  Times,  Troy,  New  York. 

In  these  days  when  letters  and  books  about  travels  in  Europe 
have  become  generally  monotonous,  to  say  the  least,  it  is  absolute- 
ly refreshing  to  get  hold  of  a  bright,  original  book  like  "  We  Two 
alone  in  Europe."  .  .  .  The  book  is  especially  interesting  for 
its  fresh,  bright  observations  on  manners,  customs,  and  objects 
of  interest  as  viewed  through  these  young  girls'  eyes,  and  the 
charming  spice  of  adventure  running  through  it.  —  Home  Jour- 
nal^ Boston.  ^ 

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THE   HUMBLER  POETS.    A  Collec- 
tion of  Newspaper  and  Periodical  Verse.     1870  to 
1885.     By  SLASON  THOMPSON.    Crown  8vo,  459  pages, 
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The  publishers  have  done  well  in  issuing  this  volume  in  a 
style  of  literary  and  artistic  excellence,  such  as  is  given  to  the 
works  of  the  poets  of  name  and  fame,  because  the  contents  richly 
entitle  it  to  such  distinction.  —  Home  Journal,  Boston. 

The  high  poetic  character  of  these  poems,  as  a  whole,  is  sur- 
prising. As  a  unit,  the  collection  makes  an  impression  which 
even  a  genius  of  the  highest  order  would  not  be  adequate  to  pro- 
duce. .  .  .  Measured  by  poetic  richness,  variety,  and  merit  of 
the  selections  contained,  the  collection  is  a  rarely  good  one 
flavored  with  the  freshness  and  aroma  of  the  present  time. — 
Independent,  New  York. 

Mr.  Thompson  winnowed  out  the  chaff  from  the  heap,  and 
has  given  us  the  golden  grain  in  this  volume.  Many  old  news- 
paper favorites  will  be  recognized  in  this  collection,  —  many  of 
those  song-waifs  which  have  been  drifting  up  and  down  the 
newspaper  world  for  years,  and  which  nobody  owns  but  every- 
body loves  We  are  glad  for  ourselves  that  some  one  has  been 
kind  and  tender-hearted  enough  to  take  in  these  fugitive  chil- 
dren of  the  Muses  and  give  them  a  safe  and  permanent  home. 
The  selection  has  been  made  with  rare  taste  and  discrimination, 
and  the  result  is  a  delightful  volume.  —  Observer,  New  York. 

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FAMILIAR  TALKS  ON  ENGLISH 
LITERATURE.  A  Manual  embracing  the  Great 
Epochs  of  English  Literature,  from  the  English  conquest 
of  Britain,  449,  to  the  death  of  Walter  Scott,  1832.  By 
ABBY  SAGE  RICHARDSON.  Fourth  edition,  revised. 
Price  #1.50. 

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"  The  work  shows  thorough  study  and  excellent  judgment, 
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"What  the  author  proposed  to  do  was  to  convey  to  her  read- 
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It  is  a  charming  book  to  read,  and  it  will  breed  in  its  readers  the 
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'"TALES     OF     ANCIENT     GREECE. 

J-  By  the  Rev.  Sir  G.  W.  Cox,  Bart.,  M.A.,  Trinity 
College,  Oxford. 

izmo,  cloth,  price,  $1.25. 

"Written  apparently  for  young  readers,  it  yet  possesses  a 
charm  of  manner  which  will  recommend  it  to  all." —  The  Ex- 
aminer, London. 

"  It  is  only  when  we  take  up  such  a  book  as  this  that  we  real- 
ize how  rich  in  interest  is  the  mythology  of  Greece.' '  —  Inquirer, 
Philadelphia. 

"  Admirable  in  style,  and  level  with  a  child's  comprehension. 
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Nation,  New  York. 

"  The  author  invests  these  stories  with  a  charm  of  narrative 
entirely  peculiar.  The  book  is  a  rich  one  in  every  way."  — 
Standard,  Chicago. 

"In  Mr.  Cox  will  be  found  yet  another  name  to  be  enrolled 
among  those  English  writers  who  have  vindicated  for  this  coun- 
try an  honorable  rank  in  the  investigation  of  Greek  history."  — 
Edinburgh  Review. 

"It  is  doubtful  if  these  tales  —  antedating  history  in  their 
origin,  and  yet  fresh  with  all  the  charms  of  youth  to  all  who 
read  them  for  the  first  time  —  were  ever  before  presented  in  so 
chaste  and  popular  form." —  Golden  Rrile,  Boston. 

"  The  grace  with  which  these  old  tales  of  the  mythology  are 
re-told  makes  them  as  enchanting  to  the  young  as  familiar  fairy 
tales  or  the  'Arabian  Nights.'  .  .  .  We  do  not  know  of  a  Christ- 
mas book  which  promises  more  lasting  pleasures."  —  Publishers1 
Weekly. 

"  Its  exterior  fits  it  to  adorn  the  drawing-room  table,  while  its 
contents  are  adapted  to  the  entertainment  of  the  most  cultivated 
intelligence.  .  .  .  The  book  is  a  scholarly  production,  and  a 
welcome  addition  to  a  department  of  literature  that  is  thus  far 
quite  too  scantily  furnished."  —  Tribune,  Chicago. 

Sold  by  all  booksellers,  or  mailed,  on  receipt  of  price,  by 
A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS, 

COR.  WABASH  AVB.  AND  MADISON  ST.,  CHICAGO. 


SHORT     HISTORY     OF     FRANCE, 
FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE.    By  Miss  E.  S.  KIRK- 
LAND,  author  of   "  Six  Little  Cooks,"   "  Dora's  House- 
keeping," &c. 

izino,  cloth,  price,  $1.25. 


"  A  very  ably  written  sketch  of  French  history,  from  the  ear- 
liest times  to  the  foundation  ol  the  existing  Republic."  —  Cin* 
cinnati  Gazette. 

"  The  narrative  is  not  dry  on  a  single  page,  and  the  little  his- 
tory may  be  commended  as  the  best  of  its  kind  that  has  yet 
appeared."  —  Bulletin,  Philadelphia. 

"A  book  both  instructive  and  entertaining.  It  is  not  a  dry 
compendium  of  dates  and  facts,  but  a  charmingly  written  his- 
tory." —  Christian  Union,  New  York. 

"  After  a  careful  examination  of  its  contents,  we  are  able  to 
conscientiously  give  it  our  heartiest  commendation.  We  know  no 
elementary  history  of  France  that  can  at  all  be  compared  with 
it. "  —  L  iving'  Church. 

"  A  spirited  and  entertaining  sketch  of  the  French  people  and 
nation,  —  one  that  will  seize  and  hold  the  attention  of  all  bright 
boys  and  girls  who  have  a  chance  to  read  it."  —  Sunday  After- 
noon, Springfield  (Mass.), 

"  We  find  its  descriptions  universally  good,  that  it  is  admirably 
simple  and  direct  in  style,  without  waste  of  words  or  timidity  of 
opinion.  The  book  represents  a  great  deal  of  patient  labor  and 
conscientious  study."  —  Courant,  Hartford  (Conn.). 

"Miss  Kirkland  has  composed  her  '  Short  History  of  France' 
in  the  way  in  which  a  history  for  young  people  ought  to  be  writ- 
ten ;  that  is,  she  has  aimed  to  present  a  consecutive  and  agreea- 
ble story,  from  which  the  reader  can  not  only  learn  the  names  of 
kings  and  the  succession  of  events,  but  can  also  receive  a  vivid 
and  permanent  impression  as  to  the  characters,  modes  of  life, 
and  the  spirit  of  different  periods." —  The  Nation,  New  York. 

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TMOGRAPHIES   OF   MUSICIANS. 

LIFE   OF   LISZT.    With  Portrait. 

LIFE  OF  HAYDN.    With  Portrait 

LIFE  OF   MOZART.    With  Portrait. 

LIFE   OF   WAGNER.    With  Portrait. 

LIFE  OF  BEETHOVEN.    With  Portrait. 
From  the  German  of  Dr,  Louis  Nohl. 

In  cloth,  per  volume $  i.oo 

The  same,  in  neat  box,  per  set 5.00 

In  half  calf,  per  set 12.50 

Of  the  "Life  of  Liszt,"  the  Herald  (Boston)  says:  "  It  is 
written  in  great  simplicity  and  perfect  taste,  and  is  wholly  suc- 
cessful in  all  that  it  undertakes  to  portray." 

Of  th«  "  Life  of  Haydn,"  the  Gazette  (Boston)  says  :  "  No 
fuller  history  of  Haydn's  career,  the  society  in  which  he  moved, 
and  of  his  personal  life  can  be  found  than  is  given  in  this  work." 

Of  the  "  Life  of  Mozart,"  the  Standard  says:  "Mozart  sup- 
plies a  fascinating  subject  for  biographical  treatment.  He  lives 
in  these  pages  somewhat  as  the  world  saw  him,  from  his  marvel- 
lous boyhood  till  his  untimely  death." 

Of  the  "  Life  of  Wagner,"  the  American  (Baltimore)  says: 
"  It  gives  in  vigorous  outlines  those  events  of  the  life  of  the  tone 
poet  which  exercised  the  greatest  influences  upon  his  artistic 
career.  ...  It  is  a  story  of  a  strange  life  devoted  to  lofty  aims." 

Of  the  "  Life  of  Beethoven,"  the  National  Journal  of  Edu- 
cation says :  "  Beethoven  was  great  and  noble  as  a  man,  and 
his  artistic  creations  were  in  harmony  with  his  great  nature. 
The  story  of  his  life,  outlined  in  this  volume,  is  of  the  deepest 
interest." 

Sold  by  all  booksellers,  or  mailed,  on  receipt  of  price ,  by 

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HOME  LIFE  OF  GREAT  AUTHORS. 
By  HATTIE  TYNG  GRISWOLD,  i2mo,  385  pages. 
Price,  $1.50. 

In  half  calf  or  half  morocco,  $3.50. 


A  collection  of  upward  of  thirty  descriptive  sketches,  hav- 
ing for  their  subjects  Byron,  Burns,  the  Brownings,  Bryant,  Bul- 
wer,  Bronte  (Charlotte),  Carlyle,  Dickens,  DeStael,  DeQuincey, 
Eliot  (George),  Emerson,  Fuller  (Margaret),  Irving,  Goethe, 
Hawthorne,  Holmes,  Hugo,  Kingsley,  Lowell,  Lamb,  Long- 
fellow, Macaulay,  North  (Kit),  Poe,  Ruskin,  Shelley,  Scott,  Sand 
(George),  Thackeray,  Tennyson,  Wordsworth,  and  Whittier. 

No  such  excellent  collection  of  brief  biographies  of  literary 
favorites  has  ever  before  appeared  in  this  country.  Mrs.  Gris- 
wold's  taste  and  discretion  are  as  much  to  be  admired  as  her  in- 
dustry in  the  composition  of  these  delightful  sketches.  —  The 
Bulletin,  Philadelphia. 

Most  often  we  have  a  condensed  biography,  with  special  at- 
tention given  to  the  personal  element  in  the  way  of  description, 
anecdote,  reminiscences,  and  other  such  matters  as  a  skilful  col- 
lector could  gather  from  the  plentiful  sources  of  such  information. 
There  is  a  noticeable  good  taste  shown  in  dealing  with  those 
more  intimate  portions  of  the  lives  of  the  heroes  and  heroines,  — 
the  affaires  de  cceur,  — The  Nation,  New  York. 

The  author  has  shown  a  rare  discrimination  in  the  treatment  of 
her  subjects.  And  in  nothing  has  this  faculty  been  better  dis- 
played than  in  her  selection  of  authors.  This  alone  is  a  difficult 
task,  —  one  in  which  any  writer  would  be  sure  to  offend,  at  least 
by  omission.  But  the  table  of  contents  of  this  book  is  a  gratify- 
ing success,  and  the  menu  here  provided  will  abundantly  satisfy 
the  most  of  readers.  —  The  Express,  Buffalo. 


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HTHE  STANDARD  CANTATAS.  Their 

•*-  Stories,  their  Music,  and  their  Composers.  A  Hand- 
book. By  GEORGE  P.  UPTON.  i2mo,  367  pages,  yellow 
edges,  price,  $1.50 ;  extra  gilt,  gilt  edges,  $2.00. 

In  half  calf,  gilt  top  ....  $3.25 
In  half  morocco,  gilt  edges  .  3.75 
In  full  morocco,  flexible  .  .  6.00 


The  "  Standard  Cantatas  "  forms  the  third  volume  in  the  uni- 
form series  which  already  includes  the  now  well  known  "  Stan- 
dard Operas"  and  the  "  Standard  Oratorios. "  This  latest  work 
deals  with  a  class  of  musical  compositions,  midway  between  the 
opera  and  the  oratorio,  which  is  growing  rapidly  in  favor  both 
with  composers  and  audiences. 

As  in  the  two  former  works,  the  subject  is  treated,  so  far  as 
possible,  in  an  untechnical  manner,  so  that  it  may  satisfy  the 
needs  of  musically  uneducated  music  lovers,  and  add  to  their  en- 
joyment by  a  plain  statement  of  the  story  of  the  cantata  and  a 
popular  analysis  of  its  music,  with  brief  pertinent  selections  from 
its  poetical  text. 

The  book  includes  a  comprehensive  essay  on  the  origin  of  the 
cantata,  and  its  development  from  rude  beginnings  ;  biographical 
sketches  of  the  composers ;  carefully  prepared  descriptions  of 
the  plots  and  the  music  ;  and  an  appendix  containing  the  names 
and  dates  of  composition  of  all  the  best  known  cantatas  from  the 
earliest  times. 

This  series  of  works  on  popular  music  has  steadily  grown  in 
favor  since  the  appearance  of  the  first  volume  on  the  Operas. 
When  the  series  is  completed,  as  it  will  be  next  year  by  a  volume 
on  the  Standard  Symphonies,  it  will  be,  as  the  New  York 
"  Nation  '  has  said,  indispensable  to  every  musical  library. 

Sold  by  all  booksellers,  or  mailed  on  receipt  of  price,  by 
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'T'HE    STANDARD    ORATORIOS. 

J-  Their  Stories,  their  Music,  and  their  Composers.  A 
Handbook.  By  GEORGE  P.  UPTON.  i2mo,  335  pages, 
yellow  edges,  price,  $1.50;  extra  gilt,  gilt  edges,  $2.00. 

In  half  calf,  gilt  top  ....  $3.25 
In  half  morocco,  gilt  edges  .  3.75 
In  full  morocco,  flexible  .  .  6.00 

Music  lovers  are  under  a  new  obligation  to  Mr.  Upton  for  this 
companion  to  his  "Standard  Operas,"  —  two  books  which  de- 
serve to  be  placed  on  the  same  shelf  with  Grove's  and  Riemann's 
musical  dictionaries.  —  The  Nation,  New  York. 

Mr.  George  P.  Upton  has  followed  in  the  lines  that  he  laid 
down  in  his  "  Standard  Operas,"  and  has  produced  an  admira- 
ble handwork,  which  answers  every  purpose  that  such  a  volume 
is  designed  to  answer,  and  which  is  certain  to  be  popular  now 
and  for  years  to  come.  —  The  Mail  and  Express,  New  York. 

Like  the  valuable  art  hand-books  of  Mrs.  Jamison,  these 
volumes  contain  a  world  of  interesting  information,  indispensable 
to  critics  and  art  amateurs.  The  volume  under  review  is  ele- 
gantly and  succinctly  written,  and  the  subjects  are  handled  in  a 
thoroughly  comprehensive  manner. — Public  Opinion,  Wash- 
ington- 

The  book  is  a  masterpiece  of  skilful  handling,  charming  the 
reader  with  its  pure  English  style,  and  keeping  his  attention 
always  awake  in  an  arrangement  of  matter  which  makes  each 
succeeding  page  and  chapter  fresh  in  interest  and  always  full 
of  instruction,  while  always  entertaining.  —  The  Standard, 
Chicago. 

The  author  of  this  book  has  done  a  real  service  to  the  vast 
number  of  people  who,  while  they  are  lovers  of  music,  have 
neither  the  leisure  nor  inclination  to  become  deeply  versed  in  its 
literature.  .  .  .  The  information  conveyed  is  of  just  the  sort  that 
the  average  of  cultivated  people  will  welcome  as  an  aid  to  com- 
prehending and  talking  about  this  species  of  musical  composi- 
tion. —  Church  Magazine,  Philadelphia. 

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THE    STANDARD    OPERAS.     Their 
Plots,  their  Music,  and  their  Composers.     By 
GEORGE  P.  UPTON,  author  of  "  Woman  in  Music," 
etc.,  etc. 

I2mo,  flexible  cloth,  yellow  edges $i-5C 

The  same,  extra  gilt,  gilt  edges 2.00 


"  Mr.  Upton  has  performed  a  service  that  can  hardly  be  too 
highly  appreciated,  in  collecting  the  plots,  music,  and  the  com- 
posers of  the  standard  operas,  to  the  number  of  sixty-four,  and 
bringing  them  together  in  one  perfectly  arranged  volume.  .  .  . 
His  work  is  one  simply  invaluable  to  the  general  reading  pub- 
lic. Technicalities  are  avoided,  the  aim  being  to  give  to  musi- 
cally uneducated  lovers  of  the  opera  a  clear  understanding  of  the 
works  they  hear.  It  is  description,  not  criticism,  and  calculated 
to  greatly  increase  the  intelligent  enjoyment  of  music."  — Boston 
Traveller. 

"  Among  the  multitude  of  handbooks  which  are  published 
every  year,  and  are  described  by  easy-going  writers  of  book- 
notices  as  supplying  a  long-felt  want,  we  know  of  none  which 
so  completely  carries  out  the  intention  of  the  writer  as  '  The 
Standard  Operas,'  by  Mr.  George  P.  Upton,  whose  object  is  to 
present  to  his  readers  a  comprehensive  sketch  of  each  of  the 
operas  contained  in  the  modern  repertory.  .  .  .  There  are 
thousands  of  music-loving  people  who  will  be  glad  to  have  the 
kind  of  knowledge  which  Mr.  Upton  has  collected  for  their 
benefit,  and  has  cast  in  a  clear  and  compact  form."  —  R.  H. 
Stoddard,  in  "  Evening  Mail  and  Express  "  (New  York), 

"The  summaries  of  the  plots  are  so  clear,  logical,  and  well 
written,  that  one  can  read  them  with  real  pleasure,  which  cannot 
be  said  of  the  ordinary  operatic  synopses.  But  the  most  im- 
portant circumstance  is  that  Mr.  Upton's  book  is  fully  abreast 
of  the  times."  —  The  Nation  (New  York). 


Sold  by  all  booksellers,  or  mailed,  post-paid,  on   receipt 
ef  price,  by 

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LIFE    OF     ABRAHAM     LINCOLN, 
By  the  Hon.  ISAAC    N.   ARNOLD.    With  Steel 
Portrait.     Svo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  471  pages.     Price,  $2.50. 

In  half  calf,  $4.75 ;  half  morocco,  $5.00. 

It  is  decidedly  the  best  and  most  complete  Life  of  Lincoln 
that  has  yet  appeared.  —  Contemporary  Review,  London. 

Mr.  Arnold  succeeded  to  a  singular  extent  in  assuming  the 
hroad  view  and  judicious  voice  of  posterity  and  exhibiting  the 
greatest  figure  of  our  time  in  its  true  perspective.  —  The  Trib- 
une, New  York. 

It  is  the  only  Life  of  Lincoln  thus  far  published  that  is  likely 
to  live,  —  the  only  one  that  has  any  serious  pretensions  to  depict 
him  with  adequate  veracity,  completeness,  and  dignity.  —  The 
Sun,  New  York. 

The  author  knew  Mr.  Lincoln  long  and  intimately,  and  no  one 
was  better  fitted  for  the  task  of  preparing  his  biography.  He 
has  written  with  tenderness  and  fidelity,  with  keen  discrimina- 
tion, and  with  graphic  powers  of  description  and  analysis.  —  The 
Interior,  Chicago. 

Mr.  Arnold's  "  Life  of  President  Lincoln  "  is  excellent  in 
almost  every  respect.  .  .  .  The  author  has  painted  a  graphic  and 
life-like  portrait  of  the  remarkable  man  who  was  called  to  decide 
on  the  destinies  of  his  country  at  the  crisis  of  its  fate.  —  The 
Times,  London. 

The  book  is  particularly  rich  in  incidents  connected  with  the 
early  career  of  Mr.  Lincoln  ;  and  it  is  without  exception  the 
most  satisfactory  record  of  his  life  that  has  yet  been  written. 
Readers  will  also  find  that  in  its  entirety  it  is  a  work  of  absorb- 
ing and  enduring  interest  that  will  enchain  the  attention  more 
effectually  than  any  novel.  —  Magazine  of  American  History, 
New  York. 

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WHIST    SCORES    AND     CARD- 
TABLE    TALK.      With    a    Bibliography    of 
Whist.    By  RUDOLF  H.  RHEINHARDT. 

Illustrated,  izmo,  310  pages,  gilt  top,  $1.00. 


Every  whist-player,  we  think,  will  find  this  volume  a  treasure- 
house  of  information  and  a  source  of  pleasure.  It  gives  us  the 
literature  of  cards,  and  a  thoroughly  interesting  literature  it  is. 
.  .  .  The  author  is  a  bright  writer,  and  his  book  is  sure  to  prove 
a  congenial  as  well  as  useful  whist-table  companion.  —  The  Ex- 
press, Buffalo. 

It  is  a  compendium  of  interesting  facts  in  regard  to  the  game 
of  whist,  including  those  relative  to  the  origin,  varieties,  and 
manufacture  of  cards,  their  peculiarities  in  different  countries, 
etiquette  of  the  card-table,  tricks  with  cards,  fortune-telling, 
quotations  from  famous  people  touching  cards  and  gaming,  and 
in  fact  almost  everything  that  can  be  thought  of  in  connection 
with  the  subject.  —  The  Transcript,  Boston. 

Mr.  Rheinhardt  has  not  only  made  a  pretty  book,  but  also 
done  a  new  thing.  He  has  prepared  a  whist  score-book  to  con- 
tain the  record  of  the  play  during  two  hundred  and  fifty  even- 
ings, allowing  ample  space  for  all  important  data  and  for  explan- 
atory remarks.  This  is  welcome  and  useful,  but  it  is  not  the 
most  interesting  part  of  the  book.  These  scores  are  introduced 
by  a  brief  bibliography  of  cards  and  gaming,  and  by  a  more 
elaborate  bibliography  of  whist.  The  latter  is  much  the  fullest 
that  we  have  seen ;  and  although  the  former  might  be  amplified 
to  advantage,  —  especially  by  the  inclusion  of  many  more 
French  works, — it  contains  nearly  all  the  chief  books.  Then, 
on  the  back  of  the  whist  scores,  which  fill  only  the  even  pages, 
is  an  excellent  collection  of  ana  and  anecdotes  about  playing  cards 
and  card-playing,  gathered  from  the  best  sources  and  carefully 
credited.  —  The  Nation,  New  York. 

Sold  by  all  booksellers,  or  mailed  on  receipt  of  price,  by 
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COR.  WABASH  AVE.  AND  MADISON  ST.,  CHICAGO. 


AZTECS.     Their    History,    Man- 

-*-      ners,  and  Customs.    From  the  French  of  LUCIEN 
BIART.     Authorized  translation  by  J.  L.  GARNER. 
Illustrated,  8vo,  340  pages,  price,  $2.00. 

The  author  has  travelled  through  the  country  of  whose  former 
glories  his  book  is  a  recital,  and  his  studies  and  discoveries  leaven 
the  book  throughout.  The  volume  is  absorbingly  interesting, 
and  is  as  attractive  in  style  as  it  is  in  material.  —  Saturday 
Evening  Gazette,  Boston. 

Nowhere  has  this  subject  been  more  fully  and  intelligently 
treated  than  in  this  volume,  now  placed  within  reach  of  American 
readers.  The  mythology  of  the  Aztecs  receives  special  attention, 
and  all  that  is  known  of  their  lives,  their  hopes,  their  fears,  and 
aspirations  finds  record  here.—  The  Tribune,  Chicago, 

The  man  who  can  rise  from  the  study  of  Lucien  Biart's  inval- 
uable work,  "The  Aztecs,"  without  feelings  of  amazement  and 
admiration  for  the  history  and  the  government,  and  for  the  arts 
cultivated  by  these  Romans  of  the  New  World  is  not  to  be 
envied. —  The  Advance,  Chicago. 

The  twilight  origin  of  the  present  race  is  graphically  presented ; 
those  strange  people  whose  traces  have  almost  vanished  from  off 
the  face  of  the  earth  again  live  before  us.  Their  taxes  and  trib- 
utes, their  marriage  ceremonies,  their  burial  customs,  laws, 
medicines,  food,  poetry,  and  dances  are  described  .  .  .  The 
book  is  a  very  interesting  one,  and  is  brought  out  with  copious 
illustrations.  —  The  Traveller,  Boston. 

M.  Biart  is  the  most  competent  authority  living  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  Aztecs.  He  spent  many  years  in  Mexico,  studied 
his  subject  carefully  through  all  means  of  information,  and  wrote 
his  book  from  the  view-point  of  a  scientist.  His  style  is  very  at- 
tractive, and  it  has  been  very  successfully  translated.  The  gen- 
eral reader,  as  well  as  all  scholars,  will  be  much  taken  with  the 
work.  —  Chronicle  Telegraph,  Pittsburg. 

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VyiLLIAM   SHAKESPEARE.     By 

*  *       VICTOR  HUGO.    Translated  by  MELVILLE  B. 
ANDERSON,  8vo,  gilt  top,  425  pages.     Price,  $2.00. 

In  half  calf  or  half  morocco,  $4.00. 


This  is  pre-eminently  the  most  characteristic,  the  most  in- 
tensely Hugoesque  of  all  the  author's  prose  works.  "The 
splendid  eloquence  and  heroic  enthusiasm  of  Victor  Hugo," 
says  Swinburne,  "  never  found  more  noble  and  sustained  ex- 
pression than  in  this  volume." 

Few  prose  works  of  the  great  French  novelist  and  poet  have  a 
greater  interest  for  English  readers  than  this  volume.  —  The 
Book  Buyer,  New  York. 

Here,  then,  is  a  book  that  ought  to  have  a  wide  reading  in 
America.  .  .  .  No  man  but  will  live  and  breathe  more  gener- 
ously, nobly,  and  hopefully  for  reading  Victor  Hugo's  book.  — 
The  Herald,  Boston. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  name  a  book  with  so  many  unforgettable 
sayings  upon  art  and  literature,  so  many  paragraphs  rhythmic 
with  passionate  enthusiasm  for  progress  and  justice.  —  The 
Transcript,  Boston. 

To  read  it  is  an  education,  to  reflect  upon  it  is  an  inspiration. 
To  the  translator  the  English-reading  world  is  under  a  large 
debt  of  gratitude,  for  he  has  given  us  a  book  which  will  out- 
last the  age  in  which  it  has  been  written.  —  The  Keystone, 
Philadelphia. 

This  volume  is  much  more  than  a  study  of  Shakespeare.  All  his- 
tory,all  theology,  and  all  philosophy  are  grasped  and  handled  with 
titanic  force,  the  bard  of  Avon  furnishing  the  pretext  for  magni- 
ficent speculation.  Why  has  this  great  work  of  Shakespeare 
never  before  been  Anglicized  ?  —  The  Bulletin,  Philadelphia. 


Sold  by  all  booksellers,  or  mailed  on  receipt  of  price,  by 
A.  C.  McCLURG   &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS, 

COR.  WABASH  AVK.  AND  MADISON  ST.,  CHICAGO. 


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